


Keep To Your Railroad

by CouldBDangerous



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Apocalypse, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CouldBDangerous/pseuds/CouldBDangerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>17 year old John Watson is all alone in this this sick game the world is playing. He never believed in the stories of zombies that his sister would tell him. And he never believed it would bring him to what he'll experience in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **I'd appreciate if you'd leave a comment if you enjoyed it or not! :) Constructive criticism is better than none!!**  
> \--Characters not mine, you all know that--

> John didn't entirely know how he kept track of what day it was. Maybe it was from school and the constant reminders of deadlines and...
> 
>  
> 
> Deadlines.
> 
>  
> 
> Dead.
> 
>  
> 
> John had never believed in the theories of zombies and how they worked and what they were. He made fun of the movies he saw, the stories he'd heard. He was never frightened by them.
> 
> His mother was the first to be killed in his family, he was lucky he hadn't ran into his father's walking corpse, when he thought about how he may be roaming around.
> 
> Harry, his older sister had disappeared without a trace, leaving 17 year old John Watson to fend for himself. His mother had been very keen on keeping him alive, but she had just been so blind to care for herself. She'd been torn to shreds by the nasty finger nails of the baker man down the street, along with his undead wife and his son, Matt.
> 
> John had been on the town's rugby team with Matt. Matt was such a wonderful lad, he couldn't see him the same though, in his mind. his skin was pale and his eyes were sunken and crazed. the whites of his eyes were now yellow along with his rotting gums and matted hair.
> 
> He ran away, abandoning his mother, abandoning his only reason for living, but another year later he's still alive. Still going.
> 
> Rugby had kept John well-kept and fit. His muscles had grown from running constantly, his brain had become quicker and sharp. But he lived in constant fear, he was never safe in his mind, and he was never safe in reality.
> 
> \---------
> 
> John had the right mind in keeping to the railroad tracks. He had an idea that maybe if he kept walking he would find the edge of the earth and walk off of it. He wanted to find it desperately, but he knew that it would never be found.
> 
> The railroad was his only friend, he spoke to it in whispers in the fear of being heard by a zombie.
> 
> He felt silly, calling them that. he didn't have any other ideas of what the call them. "Mother-slaughterers"? Maybe? No, zombie just had a ring to it and he wanted to be familiar with something In his life.
> 
> The word Zombie made him think of the Friday nights at home when he'd watch a scary movie with his sister, Harry. She'd always come up behind him and grab his shoulders, making sickly growling sounds in her throat. She'd lunge for his neck, nibbling softly but making the gross sounds and he'd push her away.
> 
> That was when they were young, of course.
> 
> She'd become an alcoholic, and when she'd confessed she was a lesbian to their mother, well...it didn't go entirely as planned.
> 
> The next time she'd have lunged at John, it was not to playfully nibble his neck, but to get her bottle of beer back. He had ran home that night with a broken nose and a half drunk beer bottle.
> 
> \--------
> 
> Monday was rainy and cold, much less like Sunday, which had been sunny and hot. He'd sweated straight through his clothes and his large red backpack was heavy on his shoulders.
> 
> He called himself lucky to have had what he had. A water bottle, five sets of crackers, an umbrella, and a green thermal blanket. He'd found these items in a small store and blessed whoever left them there.
> 
> He had no jacket, so he hugged his arms closely as his feet stomped against the wood of the railroad. He walked straight down the middle, his head hanging and bobbing beneath his shoulders as they hunched.
> 
> "I've been working on the railroad..." he sang softly, "...all the doo-da-day. I've been working on the railroad just pass the time away..."
> 
> It was times like these were he was a normal child again. He smiled as he sung, his voice soft and slightly ragged.
> 
> Tall bushes lined on either side of him, along with the metal tracks and wood. He kept his head down, but it snapped up in fear as he heard a rustling of leaves. He stopped quickly, his hands at his sides and up slightly in a defensive matter. John grabbed his backpack straps and was on the balls of his feet, running without any means to stop.
> 
> John had this rule to never look back, but something told him to, and when he did, he saw three-very much alive-men chasing after him. They were gaining fast, too. And they has guns. John pumped his legs to go faster, the backpack thrashing wildly against his arms as he tried to tighten it around him.
> 
> "Leave me alone!" John shouted before he could stop himself, and suddenly his was on the ground, the wood of the tracks digging into his neck. He writhed and kicked and punched but the man on top of him was heavy-set and wheezing.
> 
> "Got him, Sherlock!" said the man on top of him.
> 
> "Let's see him, then," said a low voice behind him. John could not see passed the heavy man on top of him. When he rolled off, John scuttled backward and stood, but a meaty hand grabbed the crook of his elbow painfully.
> 
> A tall, slender man, stood before John. His eyes were a piercing blue, icy and cold. John glared at the pale figure, eyeing his black clothing and surprisingly well kept shoes.
> 
> "Take his bag," said Sherlock plainly. The man worked it off of John with difficulty but then tossed it to the third man who was standing behind Sherlock.
> 
> "Now let me go," ordered John hardly, "You have what you want now." He could barely hear himself over the rain that was now falling by the bucketful.
> 
> He watched Sherlock blatantly ignore him and talk to the other man beside him. He watched through squinting eyes as they appeared to argue. Before he knew what he was doing, John swung his fist around and clocked the heavyset right it the nose, lunged down for his bag and began running as fast as he could down the railway.
> 
> He heard them began to yell and he turned to see the heavy man holding his nose and hobbling after him in anger. The other two were running smoothly and were gaining fast, and it scared John more than a couple of zombies would.
> 
> John groaned and huffed before deciding to turn around and face them. He clocked the same man in the face again but he only got another punch out before behind restricted by the arms as they were held painfully against his back.
> 
> "Just take the bloody bag! Fine!" John yelled over the rain. The man called Sherlock stood a somewhat far ways away from John, nodding to the thick man who tore the bag from John again with a growl. "Now let me go!"
> 
> "You'll hardly survive," said Sherlock in his grumble, barely audible over the rain.
> 
> "Sherlock?" A nasally voice asked slowly behind John.
> 
> "You've been on the railroad for almost five months," Sherlock told John, as he already knew, "you sleep in the rain and the sun and you've no party."
> 
> "I seem to be doing fine on my own, thanks," John spat, a small spurt of water edging off of his lip.
> 
> "He's got a blanket, plenty more of what we need," sounded the bloody-nosed man. "Just leave him here."
> 
> "No," Sherlock said, "he'll be useful."
> 
> "What makes you think i'll go with you?" John roared with anger, "you've just robbed me!"
> 
> "Not technically, if you join us," Sherlock said as if talking about the weather, "but..." he turned on his heel, waving his hand to let John go and for them to follow, "if you prefer to remained robbed, go on ahead."
> 
> "I'll...i'll fight you!" John yelled after them as the two other men began to follow. A low chuckle came from Sherlock.
> 
> "Alright," he called back as if John were a dog. John gripped his head as his belonging we're stolen from him before his very eyes.
> 
> "Wait!" John called after them. They all stopped and turned. John battled his body as it walked towards them, the rain seeming to spit on him and his morals of what was right to do. He should attack them and run again-Attack and run-attack and..
> 
> Sherlock gave him a look as if he knew what he were going to do. John looked at the man and then bowed his head. Sherlock seemed to take this as cue to keep going and John followed down behind him. John didn't know who these men were or where he was going.
> 
> "Can I at least hold my bag?" John asked. The heavyset that held it looked to Sherlock, to John's surprise he nodded. John took it gingerly from him and put it back around his shoulders, he felt better instantly.


	2. Monday-Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is my work from a website called "Wattpad.com"
> 
> You can go check it out on the app/website if you'd like! 
> 
> Thanks!

John walked and walked and walked and walked for hours. John was not the first to complain, though.

"Sherlock, can we just rest for one bloody minute?" asked the nasally sounding man next to him.

"Anderson, I suggest you shut up before I dump you in the tracks."

Another hour.

"Sherlock, I'm getting hungry..."

John's heart sunk as he remembered his food in his bag.

"Michael, you're always hungry, it's no wonder you're so incredibly fat," replied Sherlock, "and I know you at my brother's last meal, you do that again and your brain will be my next experiment."

John watched Sherlock in masked awe. He liked the way the man walked, it was manly and royal, his hands behind his back as he stalked forward. Confident and sure of himself. John was surprised they hadn't run into any zombies the entire time.

"Sherlock, sir--" John's brain added the 'sir' automatically, he shook his head, "may I eat some of the food I have?"

Sherlock did not look back at John, he was silent for a moment and he feared he may say no as he gripped his stomach as it growled.

"Yes."

"Oh thank you--" breathed Michael, grabbing out for John's bag.

"Not you," Sherlock spat, "the boy. Keep your meaty hands off."

"But we're starving, Sherlock!" Complained Anderson.

"And you'll continue to," Sherlock said, "Mycroft gave this run to you as a punishment, now keep to your word unless you want to be thrown."

Michael and Anderson stayed quiet.

"My name is John, John Watson, by the way," John said so he could cover up the sound of opening the wrapping of the crackers with his voice.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," is all Sherlock replied with.

"Sherlock-asshole-Holmes..." Anderson mumbled.

"May I ask where we're going?" John asked after a few minutes.

"A camp," Michael answered, "haven't been to one if them have you?"

"I didn't know there were enough people alive to form a camp," John breathed out shakily. a sudden wave of excitement and relief flooded over him.

"Sherlock and his older brother, Mycroft, run it."

"And on 'runs' you come out and steal from other people?" John asked with a scoff.

"Generally we don't run into other people," Anderson added in, "if we're lucky."

"Generally we kill them," Michael said slowly, "don't know why you're so special."

John felt his heart sink as he looked forward to Sherlock. He hadn't seemed to be paying any attention to them.

"I'm not," is all John said.

\---------

"Take John to Mycroft," Sherlock ordered when they rounded a large cylindrical pole. John's mouth dropped at the large tank before him and the large area bordered off by large wooden stakes and cement walls.

John was led through the large gates after being checked by a rather attractive woman who called herself Anthia. She gave him a wink when he walked through. John's bag had been taken from him, but he was too distracted to care.

People were walking around with ease, talking in low hums. John was actually smiled at and looked at by real...living people.

He then noticed a nice blonde set of hair and his heart swayed.

John couldn't go and say hi to the pretty girl because he was led into a place that looked like a library. there were sure enough, large shelves filled with books and John wondered how they got them in there.

"Stay here," said Anderson as he and Michael walked off. Front room was filled with books and stacks of neat papers and a map of London. A single desk sat right in front of John.

He looked at the dark interior and the wooden doors Michael and Anderson had walked through and waited. The air was musty but sweet. He watched as one man emerged.

He had a pointed nose and slanted eyes, his mouth in a thin polite smile. He wore an incredibly nice looking tailored suit and held an umbrella like a cane. He made John feel gross.

"Ah," said the man, his breath light, "John Watson is your name, they say?" He began to circle around John.

"Yes, and you're Mycroft I'm guessing?"

"Do they speak of me so much?" he laughed, it was thick and sweet and it sounded dark. "Spare me the details."

"Sherlock's returned, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm sure you've met my dear brother," Mycroft mused, "they've told me you 'pack a punch'," he smiled and glanced over at Michael who held his dried bloody nose insecurely.

Sherlock burst through the two front doors and John jumped. His original pale and stone face was now heated and angry. He stalked right up to Mycroft and shoved a slender finger in his face.

"Where are they, Mycroft?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Mycroft smiled tightly.

"You make me go on a run with these two idiots--" Sherlock pointed to Anderson and Michael.

"Hey!" Anderson scoffed.

"--and now you hide my belongings from me!"

"It won't make your endurance better, dear brother, I don't want you dying on me, now."

"I'm sorry," John interrupted, "but are we talking about cigarettes?"

The two turned to look at John, and he saw their resemblance of swanlike elegance, but their personalities were so entirely different.

"John will accompany you on your next run," said Mycroft quickly, stepping away from his brother.

"Don't you change the subject--"

"You leave in two days time, we're I need of more water and The people are growing restless with worry they'll be infected by the water," he swooped to the door, "I'm sure you'll figure something out with that bit brain of yours."

Mycroft left the four alone.

"We've got to--"

"Go--"

Michael and Anderson left John alone with a raging Sherlock.

"I'm sure we can find them," John said after a moment of strung awkwardness and fuming.

"...What?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Your cigarettes," John said meekly, "but your brother is right."

Sherlock waved a hand "who cares what he thinks."

"I suppose if you don't then neither do I," John shrugged and looked at his shoes. He didn't know what he was doing. He looked up and saw Sherlock staring at him with a look he couldn't categorize.


	3. Monday to Tuesday Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's it going?? Comments and criticism are appreciated, I'd love to hear from you!! Enjoy!! 

****

They did not find Sherlock's cigarettes. Sherlock had adapted the habit of calling John's name every bloody minute.

"John!" Sherlock called, "John, I asked for you three minutes ago!"

"I was trying to find the bathroom," John groaned. He'd wandered around the big library looking place and found nowhere to go.

Sherlock scoffed as if it were stupid he'd possibly need to go to the loo.

"It's down the hall and to the right," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and went back to trying to find his cigarettes.

\----------

Nightfall was John's least favorite part of the day. His brain went into a strange override where he refused to fall asleep until the slightest hint of sunlight. It must have been a form of instinct, John thought, but he knew he was on the verge of insomnia.

John was forced to sleep in Sherlock's room on the floor. John had argued but of course it was a one sided argument, and the white carpet embraced him just as the cement had outside.

Sherlock's room was bland and neat, the walls a dark brown and the carpet dusty. It was as if he barely spent any time in it.

John laid in the darkness with his eyes open. His fingers laced across his stomach and his head staring straight up into the dark room. He couldn't even see his own hand in front if his face.

"Why are you awake?" Sherlock's low rumbling voice asked into the darkness.

"How can you--?"

"Your eyes are open."

"You can't possibly tell."

"But I did, didn't I?"

"Alright then, how would you have known if I slept with my eyes open or not?"

Sherlock did not reply.

After a few moments of torturing silence unlike it had been before, John opened his mouth to speak. He breathed loudly, unable to form a line or words. Maybe because he knew Sherlock was awake only two feet beside him.

"Why didn't you kill me like the others?"

"...Others?"

"Yeah..." John gulped, "Michael and Anderson said--"

"Don't listen to those idiots," Sherlock breathed in a rumble, "killing you was not an option."

"You all had guns."

Sherlock did not reply.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John sighed after a long moment.

\--------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Oh but John was so interesting. He couldn't be younger than 20, but maybe the events of year passed had aged him. John still looked so young, though. He must have played sports as a teenager.

His body was short and stout, but he was fit. He was strong in the arms, and the brain. Sherlock enjoyed John.

He leaned over him, perched on the balls of his feet, his hands together under his chin in a prayer like way. his eyes flicked all along John's face in the early sunlight through the window. John was so...so...human compared to the people of this pathetic town that he ran.

They were all dazed, robots, controlled by their fear of the undead and his older brother. That he may feed them to the undead if they step out of line, out of turn. Sherlock refused to have John be thrown, he wouldn't let his brother do so.

He knew John would break the rules, he'd shown it after Mycroft had left the room, instantly suggesting he help him find his smokes. Maybe John thought he'd try to get to his good side, mmm, smart boy. No, he didn't appear to be one of that nature.

Sherlock then remembered how John had asked before eating his own food. Had he felt Sherlock had had a sense of leadership?

Sherlock felt a jolt of something he only felt for his experiments as he looked over John, protectiveness? How could that be?

Suddenly John's eyes opened and his forehead collided in one blunt crack of the head. Sherlock was thrown backward and John stared at him in horror as he sat up.

"Sherlock!" John reached out pitifully, "oh I'm sorry I'm--"

Sherlock sucked in a breath and rubbed his throbbing head, "it's..." he winced, touching the place where John had rammed and collided with his forehead, "...fine."

They both stood and John felt his own head, "man I really got you," John reached up to touch Sherlock's forehead but he moved swiftly as if to nonchalantly move down to pick something up. The feeling of contact made him feel...

Sherlock opened the door and exited to go and see Mycroft.

"Come along, John."

\---------

JOHN'S POV

John hadn't planned on waking up to two large blue eyes staring down at him. He'd launched his head forward and practically cracked their skulls open. What he wanted to know was why Sherlock had been hovering so closely in the first place. He hadn't given a place in the conversation that morning to ask.

As he found, Sherlock didn't give him any space at all. Mycroft had sent them to do chores around the town. Bringing pillows and blankets to the sick-chambers, tending to children, helping elderly. John actually felt useful.

He stood in the center of town, everyone humming and talking lightly as they bandaged up some new-comers. John spotted the pretty blonde head of hair and he felt his attention prick. When the crowd dispersed there she was, limping slightly and holding her knee. John's legs led him forward, grabbing a wrap-bandage as he went.

"What happened?" John asked her. She turned to reveal a set of pretty brown eyes.

"Oh, it's nothing," she laughed, "I was playing tag and I fell--"

John kneeled quickly and began to wrap her knee up. She yelped and John looked up and laughed. He stood up and looked at his work and nodded.

"I haven't seen you around before..." said the girl, "are you...?"

"John Watson," John stuck out a hand, "just showed up yesterday." she shook it.

"I'm Mary Morstan, how'd you come about the Holmestown?"

"Well..." John rubbed his neck, "came in with Sherlock and a few other lads when they were out on a run."

Mary'a face drained and she stared at him with wide eyes. She smiled flatly and pointed behind her.

"I've got to..." and she turned and hobbled somewhat away. John stood, dumbfounded before he realized the shadow above him. He turned to see Sherlock hovering over his shoulder.

"I didn't know you had a medical background," said Sherlock with raised eyebrows, but his eyes and mouth were still absent of interest.

John shrugged and backed away from Sherlock, "before my father died he made sure to teach me some things," John sighed, "hasn't helped though, I mean...I haven't helped much--"

"Of course you have," Sherlock gestured to the people around, "your reputation is already lifting gradually."

"Ah..." a hand clamped down on John's shoulder, it was Mycroft, "John you have done a wonderful job."

"Thank you, sir."

Sherlock grimaced internally.

"I've the idea to put you somewhere to where your strengths are at their peak, would you mind?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent," Mycroft had that strained smile as he looked at his brother, "you have done exceptionally well too, little brother.

Anyway, Sherlock, show John to the elderly center, won't you?"

John walked beside Sherlock, glancing at him with worry as his mood had plummeted to rock bottom. John supposed Sherlock disliked his brother as much as John disliked zombies.

The elderly center was a room in an old looking Inn at the side of town beside to army tanks and a shack for back-up clothing. They jogged up a flight of stairs and John was led to a door marked 221 and was let inside.

There were not many people in the room, maybe seven elderly or so. Mycroft's and Sherlock's parents, John found, were also in the room.

"Mother..." Sherlock groaned as she touched his stomach from where she was sitting in a comfortable looking recliner.

"You're getting too skinny!" she complained, "you've no fat on you, eat something!"

She was a pleasant lady, really, John found. His mother had been that way, she always had been.

Sherlock's father had a balding head of white hair as well as Sherlock's mother, but he could tell they were both very attractive in their younger years.

"This is John Watson," Sherlock said quickly, but eyed him slowly which made John feel uncomfortable, "he'll be taking care of you."

"Nice to meet you both," John shook their feeble hands, but Sherlock's mother had quite a firm grip.

"You'll still come and visit, won't you, Sherlock?"

"Yes...frequently," another glance at John.


	4. Tuesday-Next Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness!   
> More to come :)

John had been in Holmestown for an entire week. For the first couple nights, he stayed in the elderly centre, but he couldn't stand the smell of urine and muggy air any longer. He asked to move back into the Sherlock's room and sleep on the floor.

"I'll return every morning by first sunlight, I promise--"

"Yes-"

"And I'll make sure to refluff their pillows and take them all to the bathroom and get them water and a new rag for Mrs. Beaties fever-"

"Yes, you can stay, John-"

"And I'll clean out the waste buckets extra well and--"

Sherlock gripped John's shoulders and John stopped and looked up at the man in a daze. Stress had taken over John as well as the insomnia, he'd gone nearly four days with only a couple hours of sleep at a time.

"You may stay in my room," Sherlock said slowly in his rumbling voice, his hands relaxed as John's shoulders did. He hadn't figured out why he'd been so scared to ask the question.

For the passed week, Sherlock had grown more and more accustomed to having John around. By day he was in the elderly centre and by night he returned to his experiments. John had always heard him talk about them but he'd never seen one before.

"John, will you--" and "it's for an experiment, John--" and also, a new one "please."

"No, cold turkey, we agreed," John said as he passed an elder a glass if water. Sherlock was standing in the corner with his arms crossed and head turned like an absolute child.

Sherlock swooped over in a glide and loomed over John with a look of...John could not categorize.

"I'll show you an experiment I'm working on."

John blinked, desire for the excitement of finally knowing what was beyond Sherlock's bedroom. But he laughed and shook his head.

"Oh no, nice try."

"It was worth a shot," Sherlock shrugged. the cigarette problem had surfaced again, Mycroft made them both swear to stray away from the habit, especially Sherlock. John was not one to break his word.

John usually stayed in the centre the entire day, but Sherlock insisted it was alright to go out.

"I don't know..." John rolled his shoulders as he stood, "Mycroft said I should--"

"Mycroft doesn't know about human needs," Sherlock said. But did even Sherlock know human needs? John in the entire time knowing Sherlock had not seen him eat once. He'd never seen him excuse himself to go to the loo, or even cough or sneeze or snore. It was like he was a machine.

"You mean 'fresh air' as in human needs?" John crossed his arms and smiled slightly.

"It's disgusting in here," Sherlock stated as if holding a dead fish, "I hate it."

"This isn't your place of work, though, remember?"

But it's yours, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock blinked.

"You know, you don't necessarily have to be here."

Yes I do, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock stood stock still, staring at John.

John waved a hand in front of Sherlock's face, "hello?"

"It's entirely unhealthy for the brain to be kept in an environment like this," Sherlock said blatantly ignoring John's statements.

"Then let the others come out too," John shot back, "I'm not going to leave my post of duty just because you've said so, these people need constant care just as an infant would!"

"I've never cared for an infant."

"Never cared for a person, either," John added. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

\---------

SHERLOCK'S POV

It was no doubt John was a rule breaker, but somehow his loyalty had overruled his desire to do what Sherlock wanted.

The elderly had an hour to roam the town with attenders if needed, all of them had to be in wheelchairs by the centre otherwise.

John looked relaxed for the first time, somewhat. John had been giving special attention to an old woman they called Beatie, who'd come down with a mild fever. It had broken on the second day John had diagnosed it, and she was growing exceedingly better by what seemed the hour.

It was no doubt John was a good...doctor. He had a good bedside manner, something Sherlock lacked entirely.

"It may be cloudy, but I know they enjoy it," John said beside Sherlock as they scanned the area, "thank you, Sherlock." John smiled up at him.

Sherlock looked down and felt suddenly flustered and looked away, he choked internally but on the outside he said, "you're welcome."

\--------

The elderly went back inside after an hour with their accompanied persons and John was allowed to stay outside like Sherlock wanted.

He just liked spending time with him, that was all, but...but...

"I've always enjoyed the rain," John said as he held out his hand and a raindrop splattered on to his callused palm.

Sherlock said nothing.

"All the nights on the railroad when it rained and never once did I get sick," John continued, "I like it and I think it likes me." another raindrop. Sherlock had the sudden urge to grab his hand.

He did.

"Sherlock?" John looked at him as he felt his palm and then slowly entwined their fingers, "what're you doing?"

"I'm showing you an experiment."

"Wha--? That's not--this's not--"

Sherlock could feel John's pulse quickening. Oh? Wonderful. John Watson never ceased to surprise him.

"Are you uncomfortable, John?" Sherlock played, his eyes traveling upward over John's chest and neck, then to his eyes. He saw John's neck physically bob as he gulped and stared, wide eyed at him.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am uncomfortable."

"Then move your hand," Sherlock said slowly, not taking his eyes away from John's.

John did nothing.


	5. Tuesday-Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm wondering, are the changes of point of views helpful?? I enjoy writing both John and Sherlock. Let me know, enjoy!!

****

JOHN'S POV

As Sherlock had entwined their fingers John's brain stopped and was set into autopilot, causing him to sputter words as he ran on fumes.

Sherlock, no doubt, was a beautiful man and John had in that moment, admitted to himself that he was attracted to Sherlock like no other.

A small flash of the blonde girl went through his head but Sherlock had pushed it away with his eyes.

"Are you uncomfortable, John?" Sherlock had asked him. Uncomfortable? Of course he was uncomfortable! He was feeling...uncomfortable but...

"Yes, Sherlock, I am uncomfortable," he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact like it was obvious. Sherlock's eyes did not move.

"Then move your hand."

John's brain told him to rip it away, thrash and run, but his heart was beating so fast that the drumming rung over his internal cursing.

John sat and did nothing.

"Your eyes, they've dilated," Sherlock hummed in a low voice. John tried to look away but he..."you have beautiful eyes, John."

"Sherlock, that's..."

"Your pulse has been quickening by the second, blood rushing to your cheeks and..." Sherlock's eyes began to travel downward. John finally found his strength and ripped his hand away and turned his entire body to where his back was facing Sherlock.

Big mistake.

Two large, pale, slender hands snaked their way around his waist. John's head bucked upward and Sherlock's mouth was right by his ear. He felt Sherlock's hair and the way it tickled him with each curl.

"You've so much space to run..." Sherlock vibrated John's brain with his voice, "and yet you stay right here...interesting."

It was true, John was staying there by choice because Sherlock's hands were not giving any pressure on John's body whatsoever besides their natural heaviness. John breathed something shuddery, and then his eyes widened as he felt a pair of soft lips caress just under John's ear.

"What's that metaphor? A deer in the headlights...hmmm?"

"Sher-lock--" John managed meekly. And just as fast as Sherlock had been on him he pulled away and sat there. John sat, suddenly colder, his back still to Sherlock. He could sense his presence behind him, but he didn't dare turn.

\--------

SHERLOCK'S POV

John was...was even more divine than he'd imagined. A leader yet so submissive, so physically strong but so physically unable.

He smelled like the air and death, something Sherlock knew quite well, but somehow John made it smell better.

His skin was soft on his neck, but he felt the scars beneath his shirt on his stomach. He'd barely grazed his waist and stomach with his hands, he just wanted to feel it.

John's neck and head were soft and heated with blush, like his ears and hands. When he'd pulled away from his hand he saw his perfect opening.

Now John sat, his back facing him. Sherlock could see his shoulder blades and the barely seen ridges of his spine. The muscle was there, oh so there.

"You've given perfect results," Sherlock said coyly, "May I test again?"

John turned slowly around, his head down like a guilty puppy, but his eyes were casted upward towards Sherlock. It made him feel in control and frankly, Sherlock enjoyed the sensation.

John looked away, but at least he was facing him now. Sherlock could see the strains of his neck and his profile as he stared right into the town.

"Not...here...I mean--where is everyone?" John asked. Sherlock took this that John would not be the kind to act awkward after the current events.

"Town meetings, we have them every two weeks."

John finally looked at him, he sighed, barely noticeable, "shouldn't you be there?"

"Mycroft hardly ever cares," Sherlock lied.

"Oh."

\-------

In Sherlock's room he took no extra time. Right when the door closed John was trapped in the corner of the room by Sherlock's long arms.

"Sherlock!" John yelped in surprise, Sherlock looked down at him as John looked up, Sherlock leaned downward and kissed John.

John's lips were soft and small and thin, but he liked the taste of them. John, to Sherlock's surprise somewhat, kissed him back. He dipped deeper down, letting one hand that caged John in the corner down to push on the small of John's back to get closer to him.

John had turned his head to fit them together, and Sherlock did the same. Sherlock snaked his tongue in ever so slightly and hummed when John mimicked the action not a moment later.

Sherlock put a leg between John's thighs, causing John to gasp into his mouth on the contact. Sherlock took that opportunity to jut his tongue into his mouth.

When John began to suck on his tongue in the slightest bit, Sherlock surprised himself when he let out an almost-masked groan of pleasure. John pulled back in surprise but Sherlock just went down and took John's lips again.

"Sher--" John broke away, Sherlock returned a moment later, putting his large hand on the back of his skull, "--lock!" he broke away again. He began pushing on his chest and Sherlock grabbed another peck before he finally agreed to back off.

Panting and red in the face, John looked at Sherlock with his arms slightly risen. The light of the sun outside lit only one side of his face, making beautiful shadows to his profile. Sherlock sighed inwardly with infatuation.

"I'm--"

"John, how old are you?" Asked Sherlock, edging closer yet again. John suddenly tried to size up, and the word 'cute' went through Sherlock's mind.

"I'm 17..." John said, he paused, "and a half."

Sherlock didn't dare show it but he was genuinely surprised. He'd thought he'd be no younger than 20 by far. But somehow he felt a surge of...of something at the reveal of John's actual age.

"24."

"What?"

"I'm 24," Sherlock stated. John sucked in a breath and looked forward, his eyes glazed over as he stared directly into Sherlock's chest. "Problem?"

"I've never--" John made a gesture with his finger pointing back and forth between them, "I'm not--"

"Gay."

"Yeah--"

Sherlock caged John in with his arms again, leaning on his elbows rather than his hands to be closer.

"Does it really matter, anymore?" Sherlock asked.

"Well--" John held up a finger, but it drooped slightly in his realization that it really didn't. He put his hand down quickly, "But my repu--"

"If you're shagging Sherlock Holmes your reputation will double in ranking."

"Whoa whoa, whoa, no," John pushed on Sherlock's chest, he did not budge, "I'm not having sex with you!"

"Why not?"

"B-because! That's no way to--to--and even if we did--I wouldn't want the whole town knowing about it!"

Sherlock felt a surge if pride and...something he rarely felt, gratitude. John was something he'd never seen before, never met before, never had before.

"Alright."

"And--wait what?"

"I'll accept your terms," Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall but still stood fairly close.

"Terms? I don't have any terms--"

"Obviously you do, otherwise you'd be naked and getting ravished by me," Sherlock stated casually, "but I understand your concerns."

"Sherlock!" John gasped somewhat, "oh my god!"

"What?"

"I can't--" John shook his head and held up his hands, "no, you're 24 and I'm--I'm illegal you can't--"

"Frankly I don't believe in the law, I never have."

Sherlock found it silly how John still believed that the law existed. How he believed morals and righteousness and justice existed. How his age deciphered whether he could have sex with him or not.

"I'm not going to have sex with you--at least until I'm 18..." He said quietly.

Sherlock stood silently, "fine." But the. He grabbed John and kissed him all over, leaving welts of red and brushing purple, drawing noises from John and squirms of pleasure. Never had he felt so in control as he memorized this, categorized every movement and sigh and noise.


	6. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's relationship is going to be blossoming quickly, but, I need help! Comments are so appreciated. Say what you feel!!

John refused to sleep in Sherlock's bed.

"It's just a bed, John," Sherlock said into the darkness.

"It's not the bed and you know it," John sighed agitatedly.

"I would think when you're attracted to someone you'd want to be beside them."

"You're utterly hopeless," John wiped a hand down his face.

Sherlock did not reply.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

\---------

SHERLOCK'S POV

He woke an hour later from when he'd gone to bed and slipped down beside John. He laid there on his back, his legs extending outward much farther than John's.

John radiated heat, and Sherlock wanted to move over just a little more and wrap his arms around him. Instead he turned his head and looked at the barely lit profile of John, his dented forehead and bold nose, his lips that puckered out slightly. He reached out a hand to touch his face but suddenly John's hand was gripping his wrist.

"Sherlock..." John groaned, his eyelids did not lift, "what are you doing?" Sleep was thick in his voice and Sherlock liked it.

"I figured I would come to you if you would not come to me."

"No, why were you going to touch my face?"

"Your reflexes are extraordinary."

"Don't change the subject."

Sherlock was silent but let his wrist be held by John, after he didn't answer for a fair amount of time, John's hand felt limp and Sherlock's hand fell on to John's warm chest.

John was fast asleep again and Sherlock watched his hand rise and fall on John's chest. How his fingers were wrapped limping around his wrist and how small his hand was compared to his. He found his own eyes closing.

\-------

JOHN'S POV

He was scared for the run. The one Mycroft had assigned him and Sherlock to go on. He didn't know if anyone else would be joining them and he didn't know what he'd run into.

What if he died?

What if Sherlock died?

He pushed those thoughts out of his head as he sat upward, Sherlock's hand slid slowly down his chest as he did. He grabbed it gingerly, the skin callused but soft at then same time. He looked at his hand grabbing it, how much smaller it was. He set it quietly beside Sherlock and began to stand up but suddenly he was pulled back onto his bottom.

He craned his neck to see Sherlock propped on one elbow, his other hand curled around the loose waistband of his trousers.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Sherlock. John felt a shudder go through him as he laid back down beside Sherlock. Sherlock positioned himself on his side and stared at John for a long moment.

"What?" John asked finally, not being able to bear the beautiful blue eyes that bore into his soul and body. "is there something on my face?"

"Mmmm, yes," Sherlock admitted. John rose his hand to wipe his face but Sherlock beat him to it, dragging his thumb over John's bottom lip and then leaning forward and taking his lips into a soft kiss.

John was no longer worrying about death.

\--------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock felt in such a grander mood when he was around John. They admired the flowers, Sherlock told him all the different ones and the soil they grew best in.

Accidentally...persay...he deduced Anderson in front of John because he was being so utterly annoying.

"That was fantastic!" John gaped.

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock said, masking his delight.

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!" Anderson fumed and stomped off in a huff. Sherlock pointed to Anderson with his thumb and rolled his eyes. John laughed, a genuine laugh. Sherlock had to turn away briefly to let his smile show.

\----

"And where were you, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his pronunciation crisper with anger.

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock mocked Mycroft's voice.

"The meeting, Sherlock," he leaned on his umbrella, one foot across the other. "You know those are important."

Sherlock felt John hold in a breath since he'd lied to him.

"I'm sure my absence didn't make a difference, as it never does," Sherlock said coolly.

"A man has died!" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock was not taken by surprise as John was, who jumped slightly. Mycroft regained himself. "Gregory Lestrade, a good friend..."

More than a friend, then, thought Sherlock.

"It was his memorial and you neglected it."

"I never liked him," Sherlock lied.

"Sherlock!" John gritted, he felt the sadness in his voice and tried very hard not to look at him.

"You both will still be going on the run, and don't come back empty handed or you're staying out there until you do." Sherlock turned and gestured for John to follow. "And don't bring any more people back, Sherlock, they're walking corpses as it is."

\--------

It was true, they weren't as thriving as they had been before. Bringing back the meek belongings of John had been so disappointing Sherlock had heard Mycroft send out more men immediately.

"I can't believe you said that," John crossed his arms as they walked, "it was so insensitive."

"I am insensitive, John," Sherlock said, "caring is not an advantage."

John stopped in his tracks, "Caring for the people?"

"Yes?"

John's face became distraught and twisted, "I've got to go check the elderly centre." John left him alone. Sherlock wanted to follow him but he knew anger when he saw it.

\--------

JOHN'S POV

Caring is not an advantage? What the hell?

"He's a bloody robot," John muttered angrily as he climbed the stairs, "He said it like it was obvious!"

He practically kicked the door open and frightened the elders, "oh no! It's just me everyone, it's John!"

They all peed themselves.

\---------

SHERLOCK'S POV

"Ah, back so soon, Sherlock? Where's your pet?"

Sherlock stood before Mycroft's desk, Mycroft's back toward him.

"John can't die," Sherlock said plainly, yet so urgently.

"Then don't let him," Mycroft turned slowly, "Really? Choosing a dog as a companion?"

"He's smarter than you'd think," Sherlock replied.

"I don't think you've taken liking to him for his intelligence, it's barely there."

"Tell him to do something else, I don't want him going on the run, Mycroft."

"Would you go alone? No."

"I'll take Donavan," Sherlock said reluctantly. She never liked him. "She's done nothing but sit around all week, give her to me."

Mycroft pondered this, but his eyes were set and cool, "If you insist John is so brilliant, then he won't die, he's going."

"Loyalty to you doesn't need to be questioned with him, don't be such a prat!"

"What was it you said to him?" Mycroft mused, twirling his umbrella on its tip beneath his fingertips, "caring is not an advantage?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and glanced away, he sighed, "Please."

"Your childish looks and pleads may have worked on mummy, but not I, I suggest you leave, little brother." Mycroft turned dismissively. Sherlock choked back a growl and turned swiftly and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock knew there was an 87% chance that John would die on the run. Mycroft knew where Sherlock intended to go for this run, disposing of people was easy, finding food and water wasn't so much, and he had to do both of those things.

Mycroft worried terribly about loyalty, and he didn't understand why he was so keen on testing John. It was obvious that's what he was doing, he'd seen it so many times before.

Another boy who'd been near 19 when Sherlock was 23 had been found and taken into Holmestown. Mycroft despised him instantly. Jim Moriarty was his name. His smile was snake like, his eyes big and brown, but as dark and cruel as the devil's. He'd gotten away with the murders of 13 people and no one had figured it out until Sherlock had finally taken interest in it.

He'd never grown attached to Jim as he had with John, but it was obvious Jim strained to impress Sherlock. And when they finally went out a run, just the two of them, Sherlock murdered Jim.

It was really a quick and easy fix up. He knew when Jim was restraining his screams as he was ripped apart, he blamed Sherlock with his slim smile and spiked teeth. He saw his mouth be stretched open by a rotting hand and he died then.

When he'd returned with the news of Jim being dead, to his surprise, many mourned.

But this was about John now, and he wouldn't dare let John come with him.

\------


	7. Wednesday-Afternoon

"Yes sir," John bowed his head to Mycroft.

"I hope you understand, I just can't risk your position," Mycroft said slowly. "You're much too important to us."

John raised his head a bit, eyebrow raised, but said nothing. Mycroft left swiftly with the close of the door.

\---------

"Sherlock will be just fine," smiled Mrs. Holmes, "He's never gotten in much trouble with the undead."

"Maybe they get so angry at him because he steals their body parts," chuckled Mr. Holmes. John smiled meekly. He didn't understand how they could be so cheerful during a time like this.

He'd have to ask Sherlock about it.

"Everyone cleaned up then?" John asked. They all nodded, "I'm going out for a bit then."

John liked outside much more than the inside of the centre.

He had to find Sherlock quickly.

"Sherlock?" John entered Sherlock's room slowly. He saw a single piece of paper folded on the bed. He crept forward, feeling strange being in the room alone.

He grabbed the folded paper and read:

Dear John,

I left on the run early to ensure your safety in staying here, as my brother refused to let you stay. Do not leave. I will return in two days time.

SH

John stood there in puzzlement. Refused to let him stay? He'd just told him he wasn't allowed to go. John then felt a swirling and churning of fear in his stomach. Sherlock went alone then? He knew he shouldn't feel any worry at all. Sherlock seemed capable enough. But who would carry all of the found supplies? Who would run for help if he were to get caught?

\---------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock had left right after his argument with Mycroft. He'd dragged Sally Donavan out of her arm chair and forced her to go with him in promise of not deducing her love life anymore.

They traveled in the back, watching the group of four in front of them. The people Sherlock would toss.

Of course they had no idea, they thought they were being helpful.

"Anderson, really?"

"Shut up, freak, you don't know a single bit about love. And I thought you said you'd stop budging in my life."

They walked along the railroad tracks, south. Up there was the stores of the mini town above, of course they'd be ransacked and empty, but what a perfect scene.

"Tell me about the newcomer," Sally asked.

Sherlock said nothing as he knew she was referring to John.

"Fine then, don't. I've just noticed you've been real keen on keeping him in sight. Anything you might want to tell Mycroft?"

That was another reason why he disliked Sally, she was as much of a dog towards Mycroft than John was towards him.

"He's real cute," she added, Sherlock flicked his eyes towards her, "maybe I'll take a go at him." She smirked as she kicked a rock.

"He'll take no interest," Sherlock managed to say nonchalantly.

"Oh? How do you know? I'd say I've got a pretty good body. Anderson never denies me, even though he may be married."

Ah yes, Sherlock smirked as she realized what she'd said.

"You tell a word and I'll kill you," she threatened, looking forward just in case some of the others had heard.

Sherlock just smirked and marched forward ahead of her.

\--------

JOHN'S POV

"Sherlock's left?"

"Ah, good to see you, John," Mycroft turned around.

"Alone?"

"Of course not, he's accompanied by no other than Sally Donavan."

"I've never..."

"Oh they go back aways..." Mycroft raised his eyebrows, smile small, "No need to worry."

John stood, feeling his nails dig into his palms. Go back aways? What did that mean? Great, now he had another thing to worry about.

"Is there some reason that isn't a total lie why I was told to stay here?" John asked slowly, "sir?" he added quickly.

"I suppose you've gotten Sherlock's letter, then. How romantic."

"How did you...?"

"It's no new occurrence, do you think you're the first puppy eyed boy he's entranced? Oh please..." he chuckled, "I suggest you go back to work, Mr. Watson, I've heard Mrs. Beaties fever has returned."

John remained in his place and looked at the musty carpeted ground. He felt his face heat up in anger, and suddenly Mycroft's shoes were in his vision. John looked up quickly to Mycroft's chilly gaze.

"I have no idea why he's chosen such a small thing like you," Mycroft said softly, "I suppose I see it..." a hand came up and touched John's cheek. John startled backward and stared in confusion.

"Until our next talk, John," he smiled tightly before John ran out of the building.

\-------

That was weird...weird so weird and wrong, and awkward. Oh John shivered as he walked through town. They were both sex-crazed idiots! John clutched his stomach.

He had a strange feeling that he needed to get to Sherlock from some odd reason. John wouldn't admit it but he had a slight feeling of...of...odd adoration.

This proved to John that Sherlock did care for him, right? He wasn't a complete machine if he worried about John's safety? Oh but he was so confused.

But he was out with this woman, Sally Donavon. John had never met her before, maybe he didn't want him to come because...

And Mycroft had said he wasn't the first...

John was so gathered in his thoughts that he bumped into someone. His mind zoomed back into his physical form and he looked up to a tall man who turned around to look at him.

"Oh, sorry mate," John said distantly.

He turned all the way around to reveal a strong face, "that's alright." John stood there awkwardly a bit but before he could leave the man stuck out a hand. "I'm Sebastian, I believe I've seen you around once or twice."

"Oh, I'm John Watson, I'm new to Holmestown," John shook his hand firmly.

"And walking around with Sherlock Holmes so soon?"

"I--"

"Watch yourself," Sebastian warned, his warm self gone. John gulped awkwardly and nodded, leaving quickly to return to Sherlock's bedroom.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Night was falling earlier and earlier, winter coming up quickly, and he had to admit he wished it wouldn't come. It was no doubt that a fair amount of the population would die, but he was eager to see how it would impact the undead.

Sally rubbed the sides of her arms, "Would it kill to a jacket?"

Sherlock said nothing.

After a couple of hours, they reached the tiny town. The roads were scattered with papers and cans and garbage. Crows hopped about, pecking at bones strewn about.

Groaning was distant, but Sherlock saw three undead emerge from around a corner. They spotted them instantly and began to shuffle quickly toward them, gurgling and their arms outstretched.

The group ahead of them turned, frightened with their shaking hands and rusty crowbars. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed a man forward, he yelped.

"Sherlock!" Sally chided in slight disbelief.

"He'll kill them or he dies as well," Sherlock said to them both, "Go on."

"All three?" He asked. Sherlock stared.

"Mycroft sent you out with us, he said you had good potential and you were strong and able," Sherlock lied, "I'm sure you can handle three."

Sally gave Sherlock a look of loathing as she knew he was lying, probably.

The man didn't kill a single one.

He ran, arms up, yelling and as he swung down, an undead gripped his arm and bit into the flesh of his arm. He cried out in agony, more undead rounded the corner.

"Shit! Shit!" One of the others were crying.

"Sherlock, do something!"

Sally stepped forward and took out four of them, the crowbar was dripping and coated with meat. Sherlock just stood back and watched. He saw a few look at him and head his way, but he just drew his gun and shot them all, not taking his eye off of the group of three.

"Well?" he called to them over his gun shots, "are you going to help or are you going to do something?"

They slowly dispersed as the undead began to circle around them. He'd catch a glimpse of one of their arms, a swish of hair, but soon they were screaming for help.

Sherlock picked off the undead one by one, reloading only twice as he grew bored and stopped helping.

"Sherlock!" Sally yelled, "are you out of ammo?"

"No."

"Then--what?!" she looked over at him desperately, "help them?!" she ordered somewhat sarcastically.

Sherlock simply turned a blind eye, as they were a perfect distraction. He walked down the road a bit, shooting the first fallen group member in the head. He stepped over his limp body and turned right and went into a tall shop.

He could hear Sally yelling for him and more groaning but he tuned them out. The store had cans rolled on the ground, broken shelves and flickering lights. Blood was pooled at his feet as he stepped through the broken slider doors.

He began to pick up the cans and stuff them into the backpack he was wearing. He walked down a long narrow isle and found large tubs of water. He sighed as he found that it wouldn't fit in his backpack, he'd have to go back for Sally.

If only John were there.

He stood up and went back to the entrance to hear silence. He walked out, his expression plain as he looked over.

Bodies were strewn everywhere, but he saw Sally's shoulders heaving and a last swing down at something. Blood splattered upward onto her face.

She looked over, "nice of you to show up!" She said heated. She stomped over to him and passed him into the store. "find anything?"

"Water jugs," he said, leading her to the isle.

They managed to fit one giant jug into her backpack, but that was it. They'd have to return, probably find a vehicle.

They would settle down there for the night. Sherlock found a small closet that they would sleep in safely. He curled into a corner, his knees to his chest and thought of John, he was back in his bedroom and safe.

He thought of John, he thought of John.


	8. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this next adventure!! Comment on what you thought!! enjoy

****

John woke up in Sherlock's bed. He had tried to resist the urge but his body denied him. He crawled into it, clothes and all, and lied there for hours.

He thought of Sherlock holding him, kissing him.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

"John's his name then," Sally said smugly. Sherlock woke with a start and stared at her in the dim light of the closet. He was in the same position as he was the night before.

"What?"

"John...John...John...JOHN!" she huffed out, "Honestly! I could barely sleep, you saying his name over and over!"

Sherlock rubbed his face and stood.

"We need to inform Mycroft of the water supply here," Sherlock said, "and inform him of the deaths occurred."

"You heartless bastard," she stood as well, angrily, brushing off dried flakes of blood from her arms. Sherlock opened the door to find several undead walkers roaming. Sherlock closed the door hurriedly, hearing Sally gasp.

They rammed against the door, Sherlock locked the door and pressed his back against it.

"We're going to have to lay low."

"Great."

\----------

JOHN'S POV

John knew that Sherlock had said he'd be back in two days but something was churning inside of him that something was wrong.

"Do you know where Sherlock could have gone?" John asked Sebastian as they walked side by side. Sebastian had spotted him and approached him kindly, something much different than when they had last met.

Sebastian didn't seem to like Sherlock, "who knows? He probably killed those people he went with."

John whipped his head up to look over at Sebastian, "What?"

Sebastian looked down at him, his face blank and he shrugged, "It's truth, John, happens all the time."

"You're joking," John asked, nervously laughing.

Sebastian did not look like one to joke.

"How old are you, John?" Sebastian asked.

Why did it matter?

"19," John lied quickly. Sebastian's brain seemed to stop. He slowly looked over at John.

"You stay away from Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian said coldly, "Don't associate with him, nothing."

"What--? Is there something you want to tell me?" John asked defiantly, "I like Sherlock, he's very intelligent and knows his rounds. I'm not going to stray away just because a man I just met told me to!"

Sebastian looked taken aback, "don't tell me you trust him?"

John crossed his arms. He...did.

"You're going to die a long, painful death, John," Sebastian said, his voice low and sure.

John stared, a glare forming on his face. "I think it's best I leave."

\---------

Alright, so, John couldn't get any information from Sebastian on where Sherlock might be. He could ask Mary, maybe.

He just needed the direction he went, that's all! John felt he had a good sense of direction, he could find him from there.

He approached Mary silently and tapped on her shoulder, she jumped beneath his touch. She whirled around but her face softened as she found it was John.

"Oh! Hello..." she put some of her short hair behind her ear, "What's going on, John?"

"Do you have any idea where Sherlock went on his run, by any chance?" John asked carefully. Her face went a little paler at the mention of Sherlock's name.

"Well, he generally tries stores and minimarts in the next town over, but..."

"Excellent!" John gripped her shoulders, "Which way is the next town?"

She opened her mouth, but then eyed him and shut it. "You're not planning in going after him, are you? John, he's fine. I don't really think it'd be so bad if he didn't come back..."

John let go of her shoulders, stared at her and said nothing and then turned and left.

"John!" she called after him, he turned, "Don't do anything you might regret."

He gave her a brief nod.

\---------

So Mary was crossed off his list. He felt the only person he could really go to then was Mycroft. He shook his head at the thought.

No, absolutely not!

After his last encounter with the older Holmes brother, he no longer felt obliged to do whatever he said. Was this the reason he was always called to his office?

His brain wandered to Sebastian again. Why had he wanted to know his age? Sherlock said it didn't matter now, he meant, considering the circumstances of the world at the moment.

Maybe Sebastian had had something with Sherlock before John came along. John sighed at the thought. He then thought about what Mycroft had said about him.

Not being the first puppy eyed boy.

Puppy eyed? Sebastian was no puppy. A bulldog, maybe?

"Oh! I'm sorry!" A quivering voice yelped as he bumped into someone. John fell backward onto his rear and groaned. A young girl leaned over him, her long brown hair draping down around her face. He squinted and looked at her.

She lent him a hand, he took it and helped himself up. She was just a tad shorter than him, he grimaced internally.

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you," John mumbled, rubbing his bottom.

"No no, it's alright, I was just...thinking!" She smiled nervously.

"Are you alright?" John asked slowly. Her eyes were wide and her eyebrows were arched in worry. But her smile was thin and kind.

"Oh, yes yes!" she looked at the ground and put some hair behind her ear. "I'm Molly," she put out a hand.

"John," he said, shaking her soft hand, "you sure you're alright?"

"Yes! well..." she pursed her lips, and when she looked up her eyes were sad and confused, "I'm just...concerned, yes! About um...well there's this feeling I have..."

John thought of Sherlock.

"Something's wrong, terribly wrong, and I feel that someone--"

"Is this about the group that left yesterday afternoon?"

She nodded.

"Do you have any idea where they've gone?" John asked. This was his chance!

"To the next town over, it runs along the railroad a bit, but...its deserted I heard..."

"Oh, perfect! Thank you, Molly!"

"You're welcome?" she smiled and laughed nervously.

"You've been tremendous help!" John called over his shoulder as he ran to go to Sherlock's room.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

"I can't believe my worst nightmare is coming true," Sally groaned into the darkness.

"Being trapped in here with you is quite the nightmare," Sherlock grumbled. She hit his arm.

"No, you idiot, closed spaces, they freak me out."

"Well you're going to have to deal with it," Sherlock mumbled, pressing his ear to the door, as the ramming of bodies against their door had died down after several hours, he could still hear shuffling of feet.

"You're quite the gentleman, aren't you?" she said sarcastically, "I hope this John boy realizes how much of a prick you are before it's too late."

"We might have to wait a few more hours, from the sound of it, there're at least 30 out there," he said to himself.

"You let all of those people die," she whispered, "how can you live with yourself?"

"I don't."

\------------

JOHN'S POV

John figured it wasn't the smartest idea to leave at nightfall, but it was the only chance he had. He needed to go after Sherlock, his brain insisted now.

There was a curfew, but no one ever checked in on Sherlock's room. He set all of the elderly to bed, and none had questioned why he wasn't getting testy for bed to sleep in there with them.

A feeble hand grasped his own before he could slip out.

"You get my son for me," said Mrs. Holmes to John. John squeezed her hand and left.

\----

Outside was cold, but the air was heavy. He still couldn't believe Michael called this place a camp. It wasn't a camp at all.

The biggest building was Mycroft's little sanctuary--library place, he didn't know what it was. It lined up against the big cement wall that surrounded Holmestown.

John stood in front of it and then walked up to the piping. He out his foot onto the brick wall and gripped the thick pipe and began to climb.

He slipped time and time again, but he managed to finally be able to grip the gutter of the building. It groaned under his weight, and he kicked onto the wall and hefted himself up.

The roof was slanted upward in a pointed way. He climbed up the slats of wood that made the roof and perched himself on the top.

Now that that was said and done, he needed a way to get down. He waited though, letting his mind ponder possible ways. His eyes went out if focus and he stared at the abnormally plain area before his eyes. He could see the countless wandering zombies before him, and he let out a sigh.

He noticed that there was a fairly large platform, the top of the cement wall, that he could hop down onto. He had to be careful, though, if he fell he'd surely die. Or worse.

He took in a deep breath and hopped down, instantly his feet planted and he put his hands against the brick of the library hall. He inched slowly to his left, the cold air pinching his muscles and the brick biting into his palms.

John wondered why he was even doing all of this.

He was a dog.


	9. Friday-Dawn

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock dreamt of John again. He dreamt of his sleeping in his bed with him, holding him, touching him.

"Sherlock!" Sally hissed, she hit his arm. His eyes shot open and he glared at her for interrupting his thoughts. "Can we get out now?"

"Why don't you go and find out?"

Sally let out a huff and moved some of her curly brown hair out of her face. She stood and pressed her ear to the door, Sherlock saw her grip her crowbar tighter in her grasp.

It was obvious she was nervous, scared, things she refused to show.

"Go on, then," Sherlock pushed.

She slowly unlocked the bolt lock and turned the door knob, the door slowly creaked open, the sound seeming to echo throughout the store.

She turned back, a smile on her face, "We're all cl--"

Sherlock stood abruptly as two bony, rotten hands clamped onto Sally's arm. Her face of joy quickly diminished. Before it could sink its teeth into her flesh, she whirled around with her other arm and smashed it straight into its skull.

It gurgled and as she ripped the crowbar out of its head, blood spilling onto her hand and the floor below it. It sunk down, its screeching dying, gurgling liquid poured from its mouth.

Sally whipped back into the closet before Sherlock could say anything.

"Honestly Sally, there were three of them out there."

"Two now, you're welcome," she said shakily, sliding down the wall on her back. Sherlock scoffed. He couldn't stand being in this closet with her any longer.

\------------

JOHN'S POV

John's heels ached as he walked alongside the railroad. He missed it, he did. He walked in the middle of the tracks, stepping on each of the wooden planks.

"How've you all been?" John asked them, chuckling, "it's been such a calming week, it has, met a man whose far more talkative than you guys."

"Now I'm going after him because I think he's in trouble," John sighed, gripping the straps of his backpack, "I don't know what I'm doing."

John did this often when he walked day and night, his feet had been given a rest, and now he needed their strength again.

"Hopefully it's nothing," John kicked a rock, it bounced off of a wood plank, "I hope it's nothing."

His heart swelled when he saw the poking of shops in the distance, but then again, there were zombies right in front of it.

John gripped the handgun he'd found in Sherlock's dresser drawer. He'd packed extra ammo, just in case.

He found himself jogging, gripping the gun, pumping his arms, it felt good to run, it felt...

BAM! first one out. John had excellent aim. BAM! BAM! BAM!

John didn't know what store they were in.

Sound drew them more and more, he kept them off easily enough.

\--------

SHERLOCK'S POV

The gun shots ripped him from inside of his mind. Sally's head bolted upward as well. They looked at each other a moment before standing. Sherlock put his ear to the door, no sound. The gun shots must have drawn the undead that were outside of the closet.

Sherlock opened it slowly, the flickering lights welcomed them, ushering them to leave. Sally picked up he backpack, the water jug bulging in it awkwardly.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

And that's when he heard it.

"Sherlock?!"

John.

"SHERLOCK! WHERE ARE YOU?"

Sherlock dashed straight out into the road Of the tiny town. A large cluster was forming around someone.

John.

"JOHN!" Sherlock replied loudly. He shot a few undead away, their bodies crumpling.

He caught a glimpse of John's face.

Sherlock ran forward just as Sally caught up with him.

"John!" Sherlock shot five more. Reload. Another four shots.

"Sherlock!" John sounded relieved even though he was being swarmed. "I didn't know what store you were in!"

"I told you to stay!" Sherlock felt anger boiling in his stomach.

"This really isn't the time to be fighting!" Sally interrupted. She whacked her crowbar into two heads at once.

Slowly but surely, they managed to finish off the near rest of them. Ten more remained, and Sherlock grabbed John by the handle of his backpack and pulled him to the entrance of the town.

Sally, Sherlock and John ran and ran and ran. Finally killing off the last seven that had followed them, they collapsed on the railroad side.

When all of heir breathing died down to slow, even breaths, the sun was dull and clouded above them. Sherlock felt little pelts of rain on his skin, and he enjoyed it as it fell. He looked over to where John lay, his face scrunched up with worry as he looked up at the sky.

"Uhg, the rain," Sally groaned, "let's get going."

Sherlock nor John moved.

Sally seemed to have an idea.

"So," she moved over and looked down at John, "You're John."

"Yes?"

She crouched down, Sherlock sat up, eyeing her with loathing.

"Where'd you come from, John? How'd you know we were in this town in dyer need of help?"

John sat up quickly, he looked over to Sherlock, "so you were in danger, then?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Being trapped in a small closet in a minimart with this freak is considered danger," Sally said, pointing to Sherlock. "Not as good of company as you'd think."

John's face softened into a smile, not paying much attention to Sally at all.

\-------

Even though it was still raining, and Sally was still complaining, Sherlock was in an exceptionally good mood. John had come to...help...him. He'd thought of him as much as Sherlock had thought of John.

"So how'd you manage to get caught in a closet?" John asked.

"We found water, lots of it," Sally said over her shoulder.

"We got surrounded and were forced to take cover in there," replied Sherlock. He noticed John look around.

"Where are the others?" asked John. Sally said nothing. "Sherlock?"

"They sacrificed themselves for us, to save us," Sherlock put on his sorrowful posture, "They were very... brave."

He felt Sally's shiver.

"Oh..." John sighed, "I'm sorry."

\----------

JOHN'S POV

They arrived back at Holmestown by the afternoon. John walked through town, his feet in pain, eyes droopy.

"Go to my room," Sherlock whispered to John's ear. John just nodded and began to shuffle away.

John thought of what Sebastian said, how he'd die a painful death. John thought of the look of anger Sherlock had given him while he was surrounded. He thought of Sally's shivering body, but it wasn't from the cold.

John shed off his backpack and fell to the floor.

\---

John woke up to soft lips on his own. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock's pale face above his.

"Sherlock? what--?"

Sherlock lowered down and kissed him again.

"You left when I told you to stay put," Sherlock growled beside his ear.

"I couldn't just--ah--" John felt a hand sliding up his thigh.

"Just...?"

"You were in--" John's breath hitched as his groin was slightly palmed by Sherlock's large hand, "...danger..." John breathed out with a shiver.

"I don't know what I'd do if you'd gotten hurt," Sherlock whispered into John's ear, "I don't know how i'd live."

"I'm sure you'd figure something out," John chuckled lightly. Sherlock's other hand slid up John's leg, and slowly he moved in between them.

"Maybe..." Sherlock hummed against John's neck. John felt his tongue swirling around in his neck. Sucking, licking, biting playfully.

"Sherlock, I can't, stop..." John pushed on Sherlock's chest, but Sherlock did not move. "Sherlock!" John hissed, "Get off of me!"

Sherlock let his head glide up, and John stared at Sherlock's abnormally lit eyes bore down into him.

"Sleep in my bed tonight."

John looked at him, eyes lidded, "Okay."


	10. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! author here. I was wondering if you could leave some comments...feedback?? anything? It would help me out a lot!
> 
> Short chapter :(

*******

Sherlock woke up with John's bare chest against his side. He woke up with John's arm over his stomach. He woke up with John's head on his shoulder. He woke up with John.

John was covered in welts and bruises from Sherlock's constant kissing. He was sure John had fallen asleep to it.

He'd noticed that during the passed week, John slept as much as Sherlock did. And that wasn't very much. He made little circles mindlessly on the small on John's back. He turned his head and smelled his hair that was stiff like straw.

He tried to imagine life that was as gifted as it was right now. And he thought, that if this whole "end if the world" theory hadn't come to reality, he'd have never met John.

\---------

Sherlock finally got up and put on his usual clothes. He left John in his bed, warm and comfortable, the blankets just covering his legs, a pillow cradled in his arms. He put a soft kiss on his forehead before leaving.

He walked through town with a good feeling in his gut, and the people around him made it even better. He liked how they shied away from him as he walked, he liked feeling in control.

Mycroft hadn't paid any attention to him the afternoon he'd returned, more to the now-deceased. It was Sherlock's job to kill them, and for Mycroft to put on a show.

The meeting was held especially early that morning, and Sherlock stood beside his brother as he spoke. He made all of the right facial expressions, nodding when it was necessary, looking away as if to mask tears.

Sally Donavan was not tricked.

\---------

Sherlock spotted John immediately in the crowd when it began to disperse, but then before he could make way to him, Mycroft caught his shoulder.

"Excellent work, little brother," he insinuated to him. Sherlock barely heard him as he saw the big burly Sebastian Moran approach John. Mycroft seemed to follow his gaze, his small smile widening, "Ahhh....John, yes, I've seen him speaking with Sebastian a number of times."

"Stop spying on him, Mycroft," Sherlock spat, rolling his shoulder and Mycroft let his shoulder go. He was feeling what could only be described as jealousy, pure jealousy.

"Oh, good morning, Sherlock," John greeted him with a soft dreamy smile as he approached. Sebastian was not so kind.

"Sherlock."

"Sebastian."

The tension was air splitting, quiet, yet ringing so loudly. John noticed almost immediately. Sherlock wanted to tell him to leave, but he kept quiet.

He knew that John didn't know about the boy, Jim. Someone who he'd taken only mild interest in. He knew why Sebastian hated him, he knew why he stayed around.

"Come along, John," Sherlock said to him. John flashed a look of what could only be confusion and looked at Sebastian.

"Well I'm sorry that our conversation had to be cut short--"

I'm not, Sherlock thought.

"--but I've got work to do. And I accept your apology, mate, no hard feelings." John smiled to Sebastian politely and held out his hand to shake it. Before Sebastian could shake it, Sherlock pulled John away by the sleeve.

"Sherlock--! Hey!"

He looked back to see Sebastian smiling, holding the hand John was about to shake.

\----------

JOHN'S POV

"Sherlock? what's the matter?" John asked delicately. Sherlock had dragged him back to his room. John sat on the bed rather than the floor. Sherlock stood in front of him, eyes flicking all across John's face.

"You've known Sebastian only a few days, correct?"

"Yes? But Sherlock there's nothing--"

"There is, John, he's planning to take you away from me!" Sherlock said sharply. John stared, Sherlock stared back, realization of how hard his words had formed.

"Is there something you need to tell me?" John asked. "Because frankly, I hate this whole 'mysterious-bad-boy' getup."

Sherlock said nothing. John stood, sizing up to Sherlock, putting a finger in his chest.

"Alright, let me rephrase," John poked, "Tell me what's going on now, or I'm not sleeping in your bedroom until you do."

Sherlock was silent. His look as if he thought John were bluffing.

"One..." John counted on his left hand.

"John-"

"Two..." John stepped away from him and headed for the door.

"Thr--"

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock said quickly. John stopped, his hand still in the door knob. He smiled internally, how that childish trick had worked, but he showed nothing on the outside.

John looked at him to go on.

Sherlock took in a sharp breath and sighed, "He was a boy that joined us near a year ago, 19 years old, completely psychotic."

"And...?"

"He took a large interest in me," Sherlock said, "one like I've taken in you."

"Oh..." John said slowly, "So what does he have anything to do with Sebastian not liking you?"

"Sebastian was...well..." Sherlock looked uncomfortable, he looked anywhere but John. "He felt what I feel for you, for Jim."

John looked downcast at his shoes, his hand slipping from the doorknob as he felt his cheeks redden.

"Jim died, and Sebastian blamed me."

"Why?" John snapped his head up.

"I...don't know," Sherlock said quickly, "whatever he tells you is a lie, John, don't trust him."

John promised.

\--------


	11. Sunday-Doomsday

John viewed Sunday as a way for worship. His mother was a religious person, as well as his father. He wondered if Harry was alright.

Sherlock and John didn't speak of Sebastian, and when John saw Sebastian looking his way, he turned his cheek. Sherlock saw, he noticed everything. John felt a brief squeeze on his hand moments afterward.

It was things like that, John admitted, that made him feel special and normal again.

\--------

The groaning had grown louder since Friday evening. Mycroft was so full of worry, he had no time for any of the people, besides the men who worked the army tanks.

"Do you think the walls will hold, Sherlock?" John asked as they sat lazily on a wooden bench together.

"Of course, they're near thirty feet tall and thick cement," Sherlock listen, "We'll be fine."

"The gates are wooden, though," John said nearly to himself, "what if the zombies bowl those down?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment, "the what?"

"The zombies," John repeated. Sherlock sat up straighter and looked at John, John looked over to him. "What?"

Sherlock broke into a smile and began to chuckle his low rumble to himself, "Oh John, you never cease to surprise me."

"How do you mean?" John asked.

"Just..." Sherlock looked over to him, his eyes bright, "Zombies? Really John?"

"That's what they are!" John exasperated, a nervous laugh sounded afterward.

"You're still a child, I keep forgetting."

John gaped, "I am not! More of a man than you are, Mr-pout-in-the-corner-when-I-can't-find-my-cigarettes."

Sherlock smiled at John, a warm, genuine smile. John saw sadness in his eyes.

John was about to ask what was the matter when there was a sudden scream, loud, ear piercing and trailing. Several more screams followed, and gun fire, lots and lots and...

John was already running behind Sherlock when he finally came into reality from his mind. People were scrambling, the front gates were open, pouring through were the zombies, gnawing and biting, chasing.

"Go back to the room!" Sherlock ordered.

"No! Not without you!"

John watched Mary get ripped into. They locked eyes.

John stopped, dead in his tracks and in a second Sherlock was out of sight. John stood, helpless and suddenly surrounded.

\---------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock dashed to Mycroft, he knew where he was. He turned around to tell John to run faster but when he turned John was not there. He stopped getting bumped into by screaming people.

He scanned the area is panic, shoving through, pulling out his hand gun and shooting some of the undead.

"JOHN?!" Sherlock shouted, it was desperate and crying, "JOHN, WHERE ARE YOU?!"

Sherlock spotted Sebastian tugging on John's arm, and John went with him. He nearly shot at Sebastian but he stopped, John would be safe with Sebastian...safer than he would be with him.

No! He needed to get John back by his side. He looked back, shooting more of the undead that threatened a few people nearby.

It was all so quick for his brain, everywhere people ran, mere blurs in front of his eyes. Except John. His figure was as sharp as a needle, outlined with a shining glow.

Mycroft.

Sherlock, in that tiny second, trusted Sebastian with his own life and ran back to Mycroft's quarters.

\---------

Sherlock burst through the doors and shut them behind him. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

"MYCROFT! I KNOW YOU'RE IN HERE!"

The chair behind the desk spun slowly, "No need to shout," Mycroft smiled, "Enjoying the show?"

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Figure it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock approached the desk, blocking the screams out if his head, "Fine, let's play deductions."

"Oh not this--" Mycroft scoffed, standing slowly.

"That vein in your forehead is growing larger, angry are we?" Sherlock played, "Why? It's grown since last tuesday, as well as the chipping around your nails. Stressed, as well?"

"Stop it, Sherlock, we're not children anymore."

"Your hair has begun to gray! Oh how mummy would--"

Sherlock stopped, horror kindling in his heart as he stared at his brother. Mycroft smiled and rolled his eyes.

"Don't think I'm so stupid, they're perfectly fine."

"By God, Mycroft, I would have killed you."

"I didn't know you were a religious man," Mycroft said sarcastically, "Don't be so petty."

"You didn't even bother to tell me this plan, Mycroft," Sherlock said coldly, "What happened to 'sticking together, dear brother'?"

"Little John Watson won't die," Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "unless..."

Sherlock was out before he could finish.

\--------

JOHN'S POV

"Sebastian! I have to wait for Sherlock!" John wailed. Sebastian was pulling John by his arm.

"Sherlock won't care for you, John, you need to care for your life before his!"

"I'm not leaving without him!"

Sebastian slammed his hatchet that he held in his other hand into the skull of a zombie. He then tossed it to John and John's instincts caught it, throwing it and impaling a zombie in the eye. John ran back and plucked it from his eye and have it back to Sebastian.

"We're a good team, you and I," Seb panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "We can leave, survive on our own!"

"These people need us!" John said in disbelief.

"These people are dead walking!" Seb gestured to the crowd.

Literally, John thought.

"Come on, John!" Sebastian pulled his harder and John looked back desperately, he needed at least one sign of Sherlock, that he was okay, that--

"SHERLOCK!" John spotted him. Sherlock was on top of the pointed roof of Mycroft's quarters. Sebastian's pulling seemed ineffective to his body. Sherlock was visibly close to the edge, and something was behind him. One...two...three...

"SHERLOCK, NO!" John rasped, Sherlock looked and saw him, he held his hand out.

John's hand went up, as if to hold Sherlock's hand. He watched as the three zombies diminished to one. Sherlock didn't have any bullets left he--

\-------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock had gone through the sunroof to see if he could spot John. But what he hadn't known was that there were three undead at the top of the flight of stairs that led to the roof. He shot six of them, the ones gathered together. Three were left and he whizzed passed them.

He'd clambered up through the top and closed the hatch, but the three managed to break it open, shards of glass making their way into their mouths and eyes.

Sherlock had spotted John, his heart hammered in his chest. He extended his hand, as if to hold John to him, and John held his hand up as if to do the same.

His finger pressed on the trigger, his bullets flying into two brains of the three, and when he went to shoot the third, no bullet pierced its face.

Sherlock choked and threw his gun aside, which slid off the pointed roof and off the side. The undead man seemed to be smiling, its eyes sunken, brown and...

"Jim Moriarty..." Sherlock whispered to himself in horror. It's mouth was torn outward on the left side, his face terrible disfigured, but those were his sharp, shining teeth. He swore he was smiling right at him.

"Just kill yourself..." Jim's young syrupy voice sounded in the back of his head, "it would make this so much easier."

Sherlock was backing up, because Jim, undead Jim, still seemed to have his quick character.

Jim swung his arms, they were fast and snappy. He could hear the bones beneath his rotting flesh creak and snap.

Sherlock was backing up more and mote, his heels digging into the gutter as he dodged Jim's slashes of his arms, the snapping of his teeth. He gargled and snarled, dark oozing blood dripping from his chin.

"Goodbye, John..." Sherlock said to himself.

"SHERLOCK!" John's scream was last he heard.


	12. Sunday-Three Weeks Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are needed!! I'd love to know how you're liking/disliking the story!! Let me know!! 

****

John walked along, his mind wandering, bored and sad. Sebastian trailed in front if him, telling him to keep up when he fell too far behind.

"John, hurry up!"

"I'm coming."

"What is your deal?" Sebastian cried, "you've been moping for weeks now."

John hurried up and began to walk beside Sebastian, more like lightly jogging, as Sebastian's legs were so much longer than his.

He thought about Sherlock falling, he thought about it every night, he thought about it every morning.

"I'm just tired," John lied, but partially didn't. He'd been running around with Sebastian ever since the invasion. He thought about Sherlock constantly, how his body must be roaming, how Sherlock's wonderful mind was rotting away.

John was a dog. A broken dog.

\------

Night fell quicker and quicker. It became colder and colder.

John didn't follow the railroad anymore, because Sebastian insisted he knew where he was going. They climbed trees in the early morning, standing on the thin branches at the top of the tree, overlooking.

There was a large city they traveled toward during the day. He felt they'd get lost during the night, and was relieved when Sebastian agreed to let them stay in a thick oak.

The bark was cold and hard, it unmerciful as it splintered his hands as he climbed. John nestled on the thickest, second lowest branch and propped his back up against the trunk of the tree.

He heard Sebastian shuffling around and the groaning of the zombies below him. They clawed up at the tree, moaning and snarling, snapping their teeth together.

"Say, John," Sebastian's voice came from the other side of him. Sebastian was hunkered on a branch slightly higher than his on the opposite side of him.

"Hm?" John hummed lightly, staring off into the dark trees before him.

"Are you cold?"

"It's a bit chilly, yeah," John sighed. He heard some shifting and a clomping of boots. Suddenly, Sebastian was in front if John, perched on the balls of his feet.

John sat up straighter, hands in his lap as Sebastian crept forward.

"Seb, no...I didn't mean..."

"Come on then, John..." Sebastian said, his voice low. He threw John's legs either way to where they were dangling over either side of the thick branch.

"Sebastian, I said no..."

"You let Sherlock touch you..." Sebastian said into John's ear, "How come you let a psychopath touch you, and not a normal man like me?"

"You're not a normal man," John gritted through his teeth, moving his face away from Sebastian's lips.

"Oh? Then what am I, Johnny boy?"

"An idiot," John said. Sebastian pulled back, his smile wide and his eyes glinting in the low light of the moon.

"Takes one to know one."

"Don't ever call me Johnny boy again," John chuckled. Sebastian rolled his eyes and backed off, climbing back into his branch, and slowly snoring into sleep.

\---------

It was like that a lot. John knew that Sebastian fancied him, he knew that he was attracted to him sexually. But John would say no to every advance, every indication of letting him feel him or anything that would lead to sex.

John was not near 18, as his birthday was the seventh of July. And he'd vowed he'd never have sex until his age was his own.

He'd lied to Sherlock when he'd said he was 17 and a half. He had barely just turned it. He guessed it didn't matter, but he always thought of what Sherlock would think.

\----

"It's in another day, John, we'll be there," Sebastian said after they'd finished off the last of the zombies who had surrounded them during the night. John was used to hearing that, he was and just shrugged it off.

"You said the army is there?" John asked as he wiped his bloody hands on his jeans.

"Oh yeah," Sebastian smiled. John noted how he seemed to be happier than usual after they killed lots. "Big guns, beer, women," he smiled bigger.

John shrugged.

"You swing both ways, don't you, John?" Sebastian asked, "or are you just--"

"I'm not gay," John whispered, "I like women..."

"Don't lie, come on John, Sherlock's not a woman, as much as he acts like one."

Present tense.

John sighed.

"It was...only with him...I'm..." John blushed. He distracted himself and his thoughts of Sherlock fondling him with picking at the dried blood on his arm.

Sebastian became oddly quiet. When John looked up, Sebastian was looking at him.

"So that's why you won't let me touch you, why you won't even kiss me for god's--" Sebastian sounded angry, "You could have told me that you're Sherlock-sexual."

"That's not an orientation," John chuckled nervously, trying to lighten the mood.

The green around John made him feel comforted, but the feeling of being watched was overwhelming. He wondered if Mycroft was alive.

\--------

"Do you have any siblings, John?"

"Did."

"Dead?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," said Sebastian, "I lost my brother, way back."

John's heart lurched. Why did Sebastian want to talk about this?

"He was seven, you know, just learned to ride a bike without training wheels," Sebastian laughed dryly, "He would have adored you."

"I..." what were you supposed to say to that?

"He always liked blonde people, never knew why, he said they were beautiful 'like mommy', he'd say."

"What happened to him?"

"Cancer in the brain, he had the cutest little bald head, John, you'd..." Sebastian stopped abruptly, John hung his head a little, but looked at him from under short lashes.

"I've gotta take a leak," Sebastian said quickly, leaving John in a clearing as he went to go to the bathroom behind a tree.

\-------

John dreamt of Sherlock that night, like he did every night. But this time...it was different.

Sherlock was elegant and pale, and clean. His hair was shining and so raven black, it appeared to be blue. He stood, his clothes black and slim fitting, his arms outward as if to take John into a hug.

John flung himself forward, embracing Sherlock warmly, and nuzzling his nose into his chest.

"I've missed you, I've missed you," John muttered over and over.

"Caring is not an advantage, John," said Sherlock, he still smiled though, it was warm and genuine, his Cupid bow lips a thin line, now.

"Sherlock?"

"Caring..." he said more carefully, "is not an advantage." John watched as he could see his hands through Sherlock's chest, his became transparent at his touch, slipping away.

He could see his spine and bone structure, his skull and beating heart. He was no zombie, but a human.

"John."


	13. Day-121

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short! I wanted to give you a taste of this perspective.

Sherlock had gone, now near four months without John.

He craved him.

After the incident, Sherlock fled Holmestown with his brother, Anderson and Michael.

He was surprised that both Anderson and Michael had survived. Considering they were easily both idiots, and Michael was overweight by far. But somehow they'd survived.

For the first month.

Michael died because of his lack of endurance.

***

Day 94

Sherlock had easily taken position again as their leader. Mycroft seemed oddly submissive, and he had apparently stopped eating.

It'd been a quick thing, the undead woman.

Sherlock had led them into a small forest, one with thin trunked trees and spiraling branches. They traveled as long as they could before they dropped out of fatigue and then that's where they'd rest.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't stupid, he knew that the undead were more lovely at night.

"We can't stay here," Sherlock said as he watched Anderson and Michael set up camp with the meager equipment they had.

"I'm tired," Anderson said blandly.

"Yeah, Sherlock, me too," Michael yawned, "we've been walking all day."

They settled on the ground a little ways away from each other. He walked in between their pathetic beds and looked down at both of them.

"If you don't get up now, I am going to shoot you both in the skull."

Anderson scoffed.

What strange behavior they were portraying.

"Don't waste your ammo, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice came from behind him. Sherlock turned, somewhat relieved his brother had decided to speak that day.

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. He turned and kicked Anderson in the side. "Now get UP!"

Anderson keeled over, gripping his side that Sherlock had kicked and wheezed a moment.

Michael still laid in his place. He was already asleep.

Sherlock was about to yell, his anger boiled in his stomach.

His emotions had taken a toll, a large one. Ever since he'd been separated from John his brain thought differently.

Suddenly, Mycroft's hand was on his brother's shoulder. Sherlock looked back to bite out an insult but Mycroft's eyes were not on him.

Sherlock looked, slowly to where his brother's gaze traveled to. Two undead walkers, slowly, unaware of their presence in the slightest. He knew what Mycroft was indicating.

"Anderson, get up, now," Sherlock said slowly. Mycroft let his hand fall. Anderson did so, cursing under his breath as he did. He gathered up his blanket into a roll and studded it under his arm.

Anderson leaned over to rock Michael but Sherlock gripped his arm and yanked him back.

"Wha--?"

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbled. He pushed him behind him and waved a hand for them to keep walking, Mycroft began to walk, tugging Anderson with him.

"Wait--what're you--? What about Michael?" Anderson asked loudly.

Sherlock crept forward, passed Michael and closer to the walkers. They were groaning, wandering aimlessly.

He let his fingers curl around a thick stick on the ground. He picked it up and then began to whack it against the trees. It made blunt cracking noises, and he saw their heads turn. They began to shuffle towards him. Sherlock dropped the stick and slowly walked back, making sure they were still following him.

When there was a good 15 feet between them he crouched beside Michael and looked at him. He would not miss him.

10 feet.

"MICHAEL! WAKE UP!" Sherlock yelled, sounding distraught and afraid. His brain anticipated the moment of his death. Michael's eyes shot open and he sat up. Mycroft and Anderson were already long ahead as he began to run toward them with ease.

"Sherlock? Wha--?" He turned around to see the two undead 3 feet away from him. He scrambled up and began to run, stumbling forward.

Sherlock turned and saw the scene, his lips betraying him as he smiled. He watched Michael just get out of their grips multiple times. Finally, Michael gained his footing and began to run, but he was oh so slow.

"Sherlock!" Michael called, "help me!"

Sherlock stood, fingers twitching. Michael was struggling and fighting, clinging onto the trees to help push him forward.

He didn't dare tear his eyes away for the next part to come.

" _SHERLOCK_!" Michael cried.

And then, he tripped.

There was a strange satisfaction to having his name be called, be Michael's last words before he died.

He watched as the two dug their nails into his back, bit into his neck, ripped off his ear.

Michael would be their all-you-can-eat buffet.

He fell to his knees, a hand still reaching out to Sherlock. They dug their hands into his round stomach. His intestines spilled out as blood gushed from the wound.

" _Bon-appetite_ ," Sherlock said before rounding and catching up with his brother and Anderson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need comments on how you liked/disliked it!! Please, I'd love to hear from you :)


	14. Monday

"I can smell the beer and hotdogs, John," Sebastian mused as he walked along. He had said he was sure they'd reach it by the end of Monday, John hoped dearly.

He hadn't thought of it much, John following Sebastian. John was a natural born follower, a team player. He'd never seen himself as someone in control of anything.

"I don't think they'll be serving those things," John said slowly, a small laugh coming out of him, "with the way things are now."

"Just because the world's ended doesn't mean hotdogs don't exist anymore," Sebastian laughed, "don't be such a downer, John."

"You seem in a good mood today," John eyed him. "An especially good mood."

"Never hurts to smile, right?"

John stopped and crossed his arms, "Alright, what's the deal?"

Sebastian stopped and looked over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes and stopped as well, crossing his arms and mirroring John as he stood a good seven feet away.

"What? I can't be happy?" Sebastian asked defiantly.

"It's weird."

Sebastian scoffed, "John, I can't believe you out of all people would be--"

John whipped up and came close to Sebastian and sniffed him. He smelled like dog feces. John wrinkled his nose and backed off, he looked at Sebastian's eyes and smelt his terrible breath.

"You've been smoking weed?"

Sebastian smiled and shrugged, his hands up in surrender, "you got me."

"Where did you even--?"

Sebastian stuck a finger to his lips, "shhhh, John, kiss me."

"Um, no," John smiled and backed away. "come on, let's get going."

\------

DUSK

The sun was setting quick, and the moon was rising in hello.

John could see the city in the distance, it was dark and unwelcoming. He walked beside Sebastian on a long dry road, the dirt puffing up behind their shoes.

The buildings were tall and made of glass. He could see the sun bouncing off of the windows, making them light as if the buildings were on fire.

Some of the buildings were eroded on the sides, being able to see the story floors and the things inside of it. Most of all of the glass windows were broken, or scratched or thinned.

"I don't see any hotdog stands, Seb," John said a little meekly. Sebastian didn't reply.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

"I can't believe you killed Michael!" Anderson cried, "You psychopath! I'll kill you, you motherfu--!"

Sherlock whipped around and gripped Anderson by the collar of his shirt. He threw him against a tree and pulled out his gun in one elegant motion.

Sherlock's face was millimeters from Anderson's, and he just stared at him, pressing the barrel of his gun to the side of Anderson's head.

"I suggest you shut up," Sherlock spat, "It's not wise to threaten a psychopath that holds a gun."

Anderson whimpered loudly and Sherlock shoved off. Mycroft stood, his arms crossed and eyes rolling.

"Honestly, Sherlock," he chided, "you can't threaten to kill someone every time they do to you," Mycroft chuckled, "you'd be bored with saying the same thing over and over."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

\-------

"There's a city a few miles from here," Anderson said after countless hours of his silence.

"And?" Sherlock asked.

"We should go there, search for supplies," Anderson suggested. Sherlock looked over to Mycroft, whose face had become skinner, his eyes duller and his nose pointier.

"Food sounds lovely to me, I don't know about you machines..." Anderson mumbled.

"How do you know what will be there?"

"I don't," Anderson spat, "it's just I'm starving and I know your petty brother is too, he's just too stubborn to eat what food we have left."

Sherlock hated to admit it, but Anderson was right.

Mycroft hadn't eaten for several days, his hands were more bony and his clothes hung on his body. Sherlock didn't like worrying, worrying for his brother for that matter.

He wondered if John had become bony, barely getting by. His stomach twisted.

"Fine, we travel to the city."

\--------

JOHN'S POV

John had to admit he was disappointed when they arrived. The roads were littered with paper and waste, cars were broken down but not a single dead body lay about.

He saw a ragged dog pass by, its ribs poking out of it, it's claws long and scraping against the ground.

"Well, now what?" John asked, "we traveled all this way for...for...what?"

"We're going to search for anything we can," Sebastian declared, "there's got to be something in this ghost town."

"Maybe there're people here," John said hopefully, looking around as if they would emerge and greet them, "maybe they're just hiding."

"They probably are."

"So you think there's a chance we may join a new group?"

"It's always a possibility," he agreed as they walked along down the middle of the road, "but keep your guard up, you never know what may be lurking."

John gripped his handgun he'd taken from Sherlock's room in his hand, holding it down as he crept to a side of a building.

It was old and red, the brick chipping and coated in a layer of dirt and blood.

He walked alongside it until he came to a large white door. It stuck out against the gray area around them. On it, painted with something that had turned brown and gunky, was the letter H.

John pushed in and instantly held his gun up, he looked to the side to see Sebastian gone to investigate somewhere else.

He tiptoed inside, both his hands on his gun, holding it straight in front if him. There were no lights on inside, but something smelled familiar to him.

It wasn't a bad smell, but it wasn't necessarily good, either. It was the smell of alcohol. It made John's senses strike up to 100%, looking around, feeling the air as a part of him flooded back.

John thought of Harry, her pretty smile and wild hair. She had been so happy, so, so happy.

There was a sudden loud bang and John was knocked from the daydream of his long lost sister. He found a short cabinet and crouched behind it, holding his gun to his chest, his finger on the trigger.

Footsteps.

Footsteps.

Human sounding, light thumps of feet. A stop, a move, clat clat clat against the floorboards.

John was indecisive on how he felt. Happy that he wasn't about to be killed or ripped to shreds, or worried that he'd be caught in this person's home.

He listened, holding his breath as the dust floated around him. John heard the footsteps, listened to them, his ears straining.

They're light, Sherlock's voice said in his mind, they may be a small man's or most likely a woman's foot.

John did that a lot, deducing, is what Sherlock had called it. He'd picked up on it quite easily, of course he wasn't as good as Sherlock was, but he could point out things he hadn't been able to before.

Suddenly there were no more footsteps. John waited, bracing himself, and then his legs sprung him upward. He gripped his gun in front of him. There was no person, the only thing that was different was there was a bag on a small round table in the room directly in front of him.

He stepped toward it cautiously. He saw a few things poking out of it, he reached the table and looked down into the bag.

Beer.

Beer and crackers and carrots that looked weeks old.

Beer and crackers and bread that looked older than the carrots.

John held his hands up.

"Drop your gun," said the voice behind him. John put it on the table. "Turn around."

John did, slowly, and who he came face to face with had his knees turning to jello.

"John?" came her voice, wavering and sad. She still had her gun pointed at him, but he stared passed the barrel to his sister.

Her hair was messy and matted, her eyes sunken from sleepless nights. Her skin was pale and her arms were bony and quivering.

"Harry?" John breathed, "I thought you were--"

"Dead?"

Her arm still hadn't dropped.

"Yeah."

"I am, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! I hope you enjoyed this next chapter. I'm sorry they're all so short, and that Sherlock and John aren't with each other!! But they'll reunite...eventually. Keep reading to find out what's up with Harry, and if Sherlock finally reunites with John in the days to come!


	15. Monday-Unfortunate

"Harry, Wha--put that gun down, it's me," John put his hands out, still up and defensive. Her grip did not falter.

"I'm dying, John, I suggest you leave before you begin to too," she warned. John held back a choke as he looked at his beloved sister.

This was not Harriot Watson. This was Harry Watson, Harry...just Harry.

No Watson would act like her. No dog would turn on its brother.

"Harry, you put that gun down right now," John said sternly, inching closer. She put her other hand on it, instead.

"You sound just like mom, how is she, anyway?" Harry sneered, a sickening smile spreading on her lips.

"She's dead, Harry, she's dead and you knew that!"

Harry did that as a child as well. Ask about things she knew the answers to. Bringing up ex girlfriends, failed papers, loss of animals.

But this was too far.

"Harry, you're beside yourself."

"I am completely sane, John, you're the one whose out of sorts!" She yelled, gripping the gun harder, "Anyone would be crazy to continue living in a shit hole of a world like this!"

John's mind clicked.

A scratch on a door behind Harry made John's mind whirr.

"It's Clara, isn't it?"

Harry stared, tears threatening to slide down her face.

"She's dead. And she's in that closet, isn't she?"

Ringed red, he noted, definitely Clara.

He felt a twinge of selfishness and cold heart as he found himself thinking like Sherlock did.

What would Sherlock do?

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

"It's getting dark, we should camp for the night," said Anderson.

Sherlock said nothing and kept walking.

He had a good feeling about this city.

That night he dreamt of John.

\-----

JOHN'S POV

"I've been bit. I went out and got bit, and right when I die I'm opening that door to be with her."

"You're--you're bit?"

"Yes, John." Her eyes were filled with sorrow and grief, thinking of the woman she loved caused her to do this. She couldn't let her go, she didn't dare think of it.

"Harry--wh--why would you do that?!" John gripped his head, fisting his hair even though it began to hurt.

"I love her!" Harry said desperately, all of her crude anger gone from her voice. "I love her and I couldn't go on without her, John, I can't!"

"Where's the wound?"

She said nothing, just pointed her gun at him.

"Harry," he said sternly, "where is the wound?"

John noted the blood seeping through the sleeve on her left arm. How she used her right hand dominantly rather than her left, when she was left handed.

John shot forward, disarming Harry and throwing her gun across the room. Harry was much bigger than John, but he had the upper hand easily as he caught both of her hands behind her back.

"JOHN YOU LET ME GO RIGHT NOW!" She yelled. Zombie-Clara snarled and the wooden door began to wobble from her attempts at breaking through it.

John slid up Harry's left sleeve and saw the red, swollen teeth marks that were planted in the underside of her forearm. It was bleeding terribly, the flesh around it coated with sticky yellow puss.

" _Harry_ , you idiot!"

" _LET ME GO_!"

Another snarl.

"I'm going to amputate it--stay calm and--"

"Amputate it? What'll that do?! I _want_ to die John, I _want_ to!"

"Harry, I can't just let you take your life, especially not in this way!" John shouted. She ripped from his grip and whirled around to face him.

"Don't tell me what to do!"

A flash of Harry as a child swirled into his mind. Her cheeks flushed from anger, her hair messy on the first Monday of school after summer break. John had told her to get out of bed and get ready, and what she said was just that.

She was still his sister, he refused to let the last of his family die.

John walked passed Harry in search of an emergency box. He found just what he needed.

He went back and retrieved the gun and told Harry to stand back.

"John, _stop it_!"

**BAM!**

The glass of the box sprung outward and broke down in small shards of glass. He brushed off remaining pieces and grabbed the axe inside of the box off of its holders.

He turned back around to Harry, whose face was extremely red, beads of sweat rolling down her face.

She was so strong, but it looked like she was holding the table to keep herself up.

"Lay your arm on the table."

"The infections already spread, you can't do anything now."

"Lay your _damn arm_ on the table or I swear to--"

She laughed weakly, " _God_?"

John stopped. The axe felt heavy in his hands, his arms aching as he watched Harry collapse to the floor.

" _Harry, no, no don't you--don't you do this to me--_ " John ran and crouched beside her limp body, she turned her head to look at him. He saw the pain in her eyes, how they swirled with regret and longing for something other than this.

He cradled her body in his arms, she winced as he cupped her head with his hand to steer her face to look at him.

 _"Why did you leave? Why did you abandon me, Harry_?"

"For your own good," her teeth were chattering now, "f-for mom and her _I-ignorant_ b-b-beliefs."

" _It was the-_ -it was the end of the _world_!" John choked, "I needed you most then and you--" he stared down at her, his chin quivering, his eyes stinging as he looked down to his once beautiful sister.

His eyes adjusted to see her skin pink and full again, her cheeks rosy, her smile bright. He imagined her hair lovely and wavy, tight curls all around her sharp cheekbones.

" _Please_ don't leave me..." John pleaded to her, "you can't do this again..."

One of her pale hands came and caressed his cheek. Her fingers were long and bony, clammy, sweaty.

" _Don't tell me what to do_..." she said to him. John's ball in his throat choked out in a sob, but all she did was smile.

John watched as the light from his sisters' eyes faded in one millisecond. Her hand fell from his cheek, her head fell slightly right from him. But her smile, it was still plastered on her face.

He didn't bother to try and revive her, because he knew she'd be a zombie in no less than an hour.

John laid her down on the floorboards, closing her eyelids as he wiped away his tears with his sleeve. His feet led him to the gun on the ground by the broken glass.

The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand, his feet were like lead as he went back over to his sister's corpse.

The gun drew down, he pointed it right at her forehead and then...

Clara.

He heard her groaning, scratching at the door, he looked to it and then back to Harry.

A little hint of John Watson had returned.

He would let Harry have what she wanted, he would be the good little brother again.

Outside of the wooden door where Clara stayed had a visible door lock. He unhinged it slowly, picked up his axe and didn't look back to his sister as he shut the front door behind him.

He locked it with the deadbolt. John back in the outside world of where his sister hated the most. John stared at the H that was traced in blood. He couldn't help it, he pressed his ear to the door and listened...nothing.

John let the tears really flow this time, collapsing against the door and burying his face in his hands.

His body would not stop shuddering as he suppressed sobs of anger and sorrow into the palms of his hands, they barely seeped through the lines in-between his fingers.

Sebastian did not find him until the sun had begun to set.

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~ I hope you enjoyed--or...didn't enjoy--this chapter!! Sherlock's mind had taken an unexpected turn as his instincts are finally winning over logic. 
> 
> Keep reading to find out what happens next!


	16. Tuesday-Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter on the computer rather than my phone (which I usually do), this is why this chapter may seem a lot longer than the others. Enjoy!

JOHN'S POV

"I'm sorry about your sister, John," Sebastian whispered slowly. He rubbed John's back as he leaned against his arm. They looked out over the city, the air cold as it blew lightly into their faces, the smell of death and blood whisping beside them. John smelled nothing but cool, rich air.

It was a neat spot, very open and unsafe, but neat. They were on the 38th floor of a very tall, nearly all glass buidling. They sat on the floor, their legs dangling over the side to the streets below, as the windows of glass had been blown out.

Inside was normal, strange cubicals were lined neatly behind them, making a little narrow hall for them to walk down. They'd scoped the place out, closing the floor door so nothing could get in. 

The cubical walls were somewhat standing, most of them, anyway. Some of them were scorched or soaked with blood. John didn't even bother going over to the place where some of them had been knocked down. He saw computers and rolling-chairs and pencil holders. He held one in his hand a moment, feeling the cold tin, circling the little holes on its sides with the pads of his fingers.

His father had worked in a place like this, basically lived in a place like this. People here, he thought, they were already dead.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

The sun was setting quickly, the air cooler, biting his fingers and the tips of his ears. Anderson had been abnormally quiet the entire day, not a single word except for a grunt when he needed to take a piss.

Mycroft, on the other hand, spoke Sherlock's mind for him as they walked.

"You miss him, don't you, Sherlock?" Mycroft had asked in the morning, "Your puppy eyed play thing?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"I understand now why you'd chosen him, of all people," Mycroft admitted, "He was...acceptional."

Sherlock knew what Mycroft--how Mycroft viewed John and what he thought of him. He knew that he was attracted to him, he knew that he wanted John just as much as he did. Sherlock refused to ever let John be handled in the hands of his brother. Who knows how he'd use him?

Because John was a dog. He was loyal almost instantly to Sherlock, all because he'd just scratched in the right place behind the ears. He spoke the right commands, enforced the correct pressures. John was a dog.

Of course, the analogy didn't entirely seem appropriate at the time that his brother had said it, but it was true. And Sherlock thought, what was so wrong with thinking of John as one? Because he quite liked dogs, or did like them, before.

He'd had a dog of his own, one with a long red pelt, Redbeard, oh what a friend he was.

He missed him.

\--------

JOHN'S POV

Sebastian stood up and patted off his pants after stepping away from the edge, as there was no railing. 

"I'm going out to get some things," he said to John before turning on his heel. John craned his neck and turned his back, planting a hand behind him to hold him up.

"Wh--let me come with you," John said, scooting backward to stand up.

"No--" Sebastian said quickly, "I've got to do this by myself, just--" he turned to face John fully, "Just find a cubical here and secure your place to sleep, alright? I'll be back."

John watched Sebastian with sad eyes, being alone again as the door closed. John got up and went to the door, watching through the long rectangular window as Sebastian went down the steps to the next floor down, and the next...and the next...

John turned around and put his hands on his hips. He didn't want a messy one, he was generally one for being neat.

He found a cubical on the far wall, one that was secluded and where the glass wasn't broken. He could still see easily over the city, and the chilly wind couldn't slap him clear in the face. He decided on that one and walked inside of it. It was small of course, and the counters were strewn with papers and pens. He supposed he should keep the pens and paper, just in case. 

John began cleaning, actually cleaning, throwing things that he didn't need out the large broken window to the streets below.

As he was inspecting the computer, clicking the unlit circle on the lower right hand corner, he saw a picture frame behind it. His focus was no longer on the broken computer screen, but the broken frame he held in his hands.

The glass of it was broken, and he removed the shards to reveal a well looking family. They were African-American, their features large and beautiful. The father--most likely--was in the middle, and his smile was as bright as the sun. He felt his throat clogging as he looked at the three little girls that surrounded him, their black puffy hair in pig-tails, holding dolls and wearing pretty yellow dresses. 

He smiled longingly as he looked at the mother, he traced the curve of her face. She was very beautiful, her smile genuine and soft, no teeth. Her dark brown eyes were almost black, but they were bright and happy as she stood with her family. He longed for a mother again, he wanted a mother again.

John slipped the picture out of the frame and held the crumpled paper in his hands, he then folded it and put it in his pocket, stood for a moment, and continued working.

He threw the picture frame out the broken window.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

He sat against a tree, one leg out and another bent at the knee as he broke a stick several times in half. Anderson and Mycroft were conversing about the city, how Mycroft said he knew it would be deserted. Anderson insisted they kept going for some odd reason. Sherlock just knew that Anderson was weird, though, so he thought nothing of it.

"Can't we build a fire?" Asked Anderson as he lay on his back in the chill of the night.

"Do you want to die a virgin?" Sherlock asked.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Anderson asked. Sherlock nearly smiled at the obvious horror in Anderson's voice. He'd still die a virgin whether they made a fire or not.

"He's implying that it's unnecessary that we make a fire because you'll cause us all to die," Mycroft elaborated, "Do shut up and go to sleep."

"I can't sleep when I'm freezing," Anderson complained. Sherlock then took his own blanket and rammed it into Anderson's face.

"Here," Sherlock grumbled before turning over on his side.

\---------

Sebastian always felt bad when he lied to John, even though he did it a lot of the time. What should he care anyway? John was not a substitute for Jim, he shouldn't give a damn whether he even died or not.

But he did.

Sebastian hadn't planned on growing so attached, growing so used to having a partner by his side again. John was so like Jim, yet so different. Both of their names even started with a '"J" for Pete's sake! 

Jim had been so delightfully mischievous, Sebastian loved it, but John was so...so...

awfully loyal.

Of course there was nothing wrong with that, but it was an un-Jim like trait that Sebastian was not used to. He wasn't used to a person returning so frequently, wasn't used to a person having his back all the time, he just wasn't. And John was always there, always willing to help and do whatever he asked.

Well, most of the time.

Although John had been with Sebastian for two months and Sherlock a week, he knew that John would choose Sherlock over him in a heartbeat. He didn't understand that boy at all, he didn't understand why John declined all of his advances and all of his confessions of lust.

It hadn't been that way with Jim.

But John wasn't Jim goddammit!

Sebastian beat himself up, every day, accidentally calling John, Jim, in his mind. He never once faltered out loud, though, he couldn't give it away.

He trudged up the large hill that led into the forest, the real reason why he was going back was because this is where he had hid his marijuana before John had pulled him away to keep going. He needed to let loose, he needed to be free in his own little world that wasn't this. Where he wasn't secluded.

The trees up in the edge forest were thin and pale, almost no walkers roamed up there except for few, and Sebastian knew he could handle on his own. Eventually he'd climb a tree that could hold his weight and smoke up there, managing the last little fuel on his lighter.

The marijuana was hid in a hole under a log he'd marked with a mound of moss. He knew where he'd put it. Just as he was entering the edge of the forest, he looked back to the city where he knew John was sitting alone and almost had the urge to go back. Forget the smoking, forget the--

Ah, there it was.

He gripped the puff of moss and threw it aside, and under it, sure enough, was the hollow log he'd put over it. He picked that up and there was the little roll, barely an inch long. Sebastian plucked it from the ground and rolled it between his fingers, he sniffed it and let out a sigh. As he stepped, the little branches under his boots cracked and snapped. He thought he heard voices, he...

"Tomorrow, we'll get there for sure," said a voice, a voice he knew.

"Shut up and go to sleep," grumbled another.

Sebastian's mind stopped and before he knew it he was crouching, forgetting all about the weed he had just been so eager to engulf.

"Do you think people are still alive there?" Came the nasally voice.

Silence, Sebastian didn't dare breath as he peeked over a bush. There were the three, their lumpy bodies. Two laid on the ground, one's face up and the other turned away from him. And there he was.

Sherlock Holmes.

He sat against a tree, his face just barely turned away from his. Sebastian ducked down again and looked at the ground. He saw his hands visibly shaking as his mind racked an idea so terrible that it seemed oddly right in the world's description of merciful.

He wanted to kill them,

Sebastian could do it, easily enough, he could silently come up behind them and snap their necks. He could leave their bodies for the walkers that would roam by, not being able to thank them for their easy meal. He found himself smiling, something that felt odd on his cheeks, his muscles had seemed to forget the motion.

 _Do it_ , spoke his mind,  _get it over with, this man killed Jim._

 ** _Think of John_ ,** spoke his heart, beating wildly in his chest, as if pounding to get attention **, _John would never forgive you._**

 _He wouldn't know, he thinks he's dead already_ , his mind said,  _no one has to know._

 ** _John's a smart boy_** , spoke his heart,  ** _he can read you like a book and you know it._**

_Sherlock Holmes killed your John--_

**_If you kill them, you will be Sherlock Holmes!_** Shouted his heart.

Sebastian let out a loud exasperated breath and keeled over. He gripped his stomach as he heaved, he hadn't known he was holding his breath as he thought. A trickle of sweat beaded and ran down the side of his face. When he poked back up, Sherlock was gone.

A lurch of fear pierced his stomach.

"Long time no see," Sherlock's voice came from behind him. Sebastian whipped around on his rear, staring up the dark silhouette of Sherlock. His skin was oddly lit though, pale under the crescent moon.

"Sherlock."

"Sebastian."

Mycroft then emerged beside him brother, "Ah, what a pleasant surprise, Sebastian, good to see you."

Sherlock crouched down so he was eye level with Sebastian and he knew exactly what he was going to ask.

" _Where's John_?" Sherlock asked sternly.

"He's--not here--"

"Well, of course he's not here, I'm not blind," Sherlock spat, "Don't play games,  _where_ is he?"

Sebastian glanced anywhere but Sherlock but then his eyes landed straight into the pool of Sherlock's icy gaze, and he was frozen in the water, "He's dead."

"He's not dead, don't lie to me," Sherlock said instantly, "John's smarter than you and I know he's still alive, so you tell me where he is or you're going to show me."

"What makes you think I'll do _anything_ for  _you?"_

Suddenly there was a gun in Sherlock's hand, pressing it to Sebastian's temple. He leaned in, his teeth bared, "I can find John  _with_  or  _without_ your help." Sherlock backed off and then stood. Then Anderson, the nasally bloke, lending a hand down to him. Sebastian didn't take it, and stood up himself, brushing off his pants.

"Follow me," Sebastian said coldly.


	17. Tuesday-Dusk

Sebastian had been gone awhile now. John had begun to worry.

He let his legs dangle over the side of the building, the air becoming a little too cold for comfort. He got up and went over to his cubicle, the walls of it shutting off the wind that used to reach him.

He sat on the counter that stood inside it, and looked at his feet as the sun set below the trees. Slowly his sneakers became faded, and the light on the photo was gone.

John hadn't realized he'd been looking at it again. He sighed and laid down on the counter where the computer had been.

Listening to everything, or...listening to nothing, John let his head rest on the tabletop.

It was cold and unwelcoming, he imagined Sherlock's chest instead.  
\-------  
SHERLOCK'S POV

His heart raced as he imagined being with John again, his mind was not as sharp as it could have been.

He didn't like that Sebastian was still with John. He just didn't.

"How long?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"How long have you two been in the city?" it was obvious that's where they were headed. Anderson surely seemed excited.

"Just a day," Sebastian said reluctantly, "we're leaving though."

"You mean 'you're leaving', John's not going anywhere else with you."

Sebastian was silent a moment, "who knows?" he turned back to look at him, "maybe he won't choose to be with you anymore."

"Of course he will," Sherlock felt a dribble of doubt, but pushed it away. John had been with Sebastian, known him longer, but that didn't mean he wouldn't choose him over Sebastian.

"Whatever you say," Sebastian sing-songed. He saw the twitch of Jim that Sebastian radiated. This was why, this was why he was doing this. He wanted John to be Jim, he wanted Jim back.  
\-------

JOHN'S POV

John woke with a start. He got up and poked out his cubical. 

"Seb?" He called out. No answer, but he did hear some footsteps from stairwell. 

\--------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sebastian was taking forever, Sherlock wanted to shove him whenever he was walking to slow. He was taking his time with this, laughing at him.

They had just entered the city, the streets were long and narrow, scattered with papers, clothes, cans, crows.

"What building?" Sherlock asked, looking up and around cooly, but he searched for John. He half expected him to be looking over the roof of a building. He half expected him to run out and embrace Sherlock.

"I don't know what it's called, but it's a big brick one," said Sebastian slowly. He pointed left to a building that was just as tall as the building next to it. It was outlined with rich faded white marble. He saw that the steps were covered in dried blood, the two stone lions had some of their pieces broken off.

He saw the building next to it, it was big and all glass. It shined against the night, the sun that set making it look as if it were on fire. He saw two large gaps near the highest floors, where the glass had broken to make it look like it had two mouths.

Sebastian led them inside of the building. Inside, it appeared to be a library. Mycroft let out a hum of delight as he began to explor.

"Careful," Sherlock called out. He dug out his knife and gave it to his brother. Mycroft held it like it was dead fish, but he took it. Sherlock looked at Sebastian. His body language did not suggest that he had been living here, that he was not familiar. "You're sure this is it? The building?"

"Yeah," Sebastian nodded quickly, looking around. Sherlock stood straighter as Sebastian turned his back. The gun in his hand twitched with anticipation.

"Where's John?"

Sebastian pointed up.

Sherlock's heart did a strange flip in his chest. Why had he ben trusting Sebastian this entire time? John was not in this building, and he knew it, because he knew that if John had heard them enter, he would have come down. He would have recognized his voice and came and hugged him and told him he missed him and--

Sherlock grabbed Sebastian by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. He held the gun right under Sebastian's chin, holding his neck down with his forearm.

"You take me to the right building or I swear--"

Sebastian's face had begun to boil red, his lips became a snare, it seemed he couldn't hold back any longer.

"HE DOEESN'T WANT YOU!" Sebastian spat, "HE DOESN'T WANT YOU AND YOUR PSYCHOTIC BRAIN, HE DOESN'T WANT YOU AND YOUR PETTY BROTHER TELLING HIM WHAT TO DO LIKE JIM DID!"

Like Jim did.

" _Shut up!"_  Sherlock growled as he listened.

"HE'S ALREADY TOLD ME, YEAH--" Sebastian licked his lips and began to nod against Sherlock's arm, Sherlock pressed it harder into his throat with building anger. Sebastian began to squirm and resist, "HE TOLD ME HOW HE REALLY FELT. HOW HE TRULY SAW YOU. HE SEES YOU AS A MONSTER, SHERLOCK HOLMES--" Sherlock stared, cold loathing in his eyes, boring right into Sebastian. He knew he was lying, he knew it...he..."HE TOLD ME AS I RAMMED HIM AGAINST A WALL--"

Something in Sherlock snapped.

Sherlock screamed,

He yelled,

He snarled.

He had never experienced such anger and hatred toward one person besides his own brother. His heart was pounding rapidly, his fingers had grown hot and swelled as it laid against the trigger. 

Sherlock pulled it.

He pulled it again and again, again, again, again, again. He watched as Sebastian's blood trailed down the wall as he became a heap on the ground. His face growing more and more disfigured as Sherlock shot him in the face, the eyes, the nose, the mouth. His brain and flesh splattered onto the wall and blood began trickling and pouring down his almost headless body. The meat of him created a painting, it created a wonderful, wonderful, painting.

Sherlock felt the blood splatter up onto his face and clothes, his hands were abnormally still as he murdered this man in front of him.

" _THAT IS ENOUGH, SHERLOCK!"_ Mycroft's voice rang over the last shot. Sherlock did not turn to look at his brother or Anderson, who had begun to cower in a corner. 

His shoulders heaved and he wiped is face with the back of his hand, which just smeared the blood even more. Then, he turned his back to Sebastian and looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft's face did not falter, but he saw the fear in his older brother's eyes. 

"I'm going to find John."

\-----------

JOHN'S POV

He walked over to the little rectangle window, expecting to see Sebastian clamber up the stairs. But Sebastian didn't come. But still, he heard footsteps.

He breathed out as he unbolted the door and secured his hand around the doorknob. He gripped Sherlock's gun in his hand as turned it. 

The door creaked open, it echoing throughout the stairwell. John winced at the terrible sound as he stepped out. Once he had the door fully open, he breathed out a sigh. But then his sigh of relief stopped as he heard the low groan. It bounced off of the walls right into John's ears, and John stared in horror as a zombie rounded the corner.

John held up his gun to shoot but then another...and another...and another. They saw him, smelled him. He locked eyes with the first, and she came barelling up the steps of stone, her arms stretched out to tear into him.

The doorknob was already in his hand and he swung the door closed, the creaking terrible and loud and quick. He heard a loud crack as the door wouldn't close, he looked up to see her arm had been jammed into the door.

"Ah!" John yelled. He saw her foot and face trying to get through, and then the others ramming against the door with her. He forced it shut, watching as the arm became bloated with the strain of pressure. John heard her screeching grow louder as he did and finally the arm exploded gross red blood all over him and the wall and the ground. 

The arm lay limp on the ground and he heard their scratching and banging against the door. He bolted it closed and barricaded the door with some of the desks behind the cubical walls. 

John battled whether he should grab the arm with his bare hands or not, so instead he took his shirt off and rolled it up into it. He walked over to the edge of the windows and tossed it over. A shudder went through him at the thought of picking up an actual detached arm. 

Now that the doors were barricaded and the stairwell was full of zombies, he'd have to warn Sebastian from up there. He looked down upon the roads to see them empty still. John became antsy and laid on his stomach, resting his chin on his arms as he looked down.

It was even more chilly now, since he had lost his shirt to a detached arm. He hugged himself close, his brain instantly remembering Sherlock's body against his. He let out a sigh and felt his eyes closing.

 _No!_  He said internally, holding his head up with a hand,  _I have to stay awake, I have to stay..._

\-----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock checked building after building after building, shouting John's name out, shooting a few undead that spotted him. 

 _Where could he be_? Sherlock thought desperately. 

He returned to the library hall that night to see Mycroft and Anderson awake, talking. Anderson admitted why he really wanted to come to the city. He had left a lot of his belongings in his work place, special belongings, and he wanted to get them back.

"We'll go tomorrow," Sherlock mumbled as he laid himself on the ground after barricading the door with several of the long reading tables. "What building was it?"

"It's just across from us, I'm on the 38th floor."

Sherlock didn't reply.

\---------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYYYYYYY GUYS! Man this had been super fun to write. Keep reading! Thanks!


	18. Wednesday-Dawn

John woke up with his back stiff as a board. He's rolled onto his back in his sleep, and woke up with one leg dangling over the edge of the building. He sucked in a sharp breath as he realized he was so close to death. 

He rolled on his side away from the broken window and let out a sigh, and then the cold filtered through his adrenaline-flushed skin. His teeth began to chatter and he rubbed his arms, standing up, he looked around, Sebastian was nowhere to be seen.

Fear dripped into his heart as he realized what may have happened to Seb. He ran to the door and looked through the rectangular window. It seemed the zombies had grown bored of him and stumbled their way away. He looked down at the blood that had soaked into the carpet from the detached arm.

"Sebastian don't you be dead," John mumbled as he stuck his gun into the back of his pants, collecting his axe he'd gotten from Harry's hideout and folding the photograph and putting it in his pocket. "I can't be alone in this shit hole, not again."

John unbolted the door, edging away from the dried flesh that had stuck to the door. When he opened it, a chunk of skin plopped onto the floor.

"Disgusting," he wrinkled his nose. It smelled terrible in the stairwell, now. He edged forward, closing the door behind him and saying goodbye to his safe, beautiful, hiding place. He's surely return again though, once he found Sebastian, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be coming back.

\-----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

The sun was cold in the sky above them, the sky clear and a light blue. He dreaded the winter coming. He "woke up" Mycroft, who had actually just been awake the entire night, and kicked Anderson in the head to wake him.

He promised himself he'd find John that day.

Anderson whined, "Ow! Sherlock, you nasty motherfu--"

"Let's get your business over with so we can spend the rest of our time looking for John," Sherlock said quickly, "The building across from us?"

"Yeah," Adnerson grumbled, seeming to finally get over the lump on his head, gathering up his blanket and stuffing it under his arm.

During the night, Sherlock had mapped out the entire city--or the places he'd been already-in his mind. He'd catagorized the material what buildings were made of what, how tall they were, estimating how many undead could be in there determining the amount of workers that most likely worked there.

It surprised him, actually, of how little the undead population was in the city. He saw nearly none wandering the streets. He supposed they were lucky, he shouldn't be wondering about it. But Sherlock was never one for being grateful.

Sebastian's body had already begun to smell, so he suggested they find a new place to stay.

"Sounds like a good idea," Anderson said as he plugged his nose to pass Sebastian's headless body. Sherlock didn't look at him, he didn't dare look at him.

They left the library and walked across the street. The two double doors of the building were large and made of glass. They were cracked and smeared with obviously bloody hands. Anderson was the first to press inside.

"I used to work here," Anderson said, his voice echoing throughout the large lobby room. Chairs were piled in the corner, tables were on their sides. The front desk had papers strewn about, the phone was off of the line. Sherlock hung up the phone so it would shut up.

"You worked for government?" Asked Mycroft, reading the header that was engraved above the desk. Mycroft was the entire British Government, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I didn't do much, just answered phone calls and sent emails," Anderson shrugged, "But it helped me get the paycheck."

Mycroft hummed.

"What're we retrieving exactly?" Sherlock asked as he watched Anderson walk over to a shining elevator to the right of the desk. "That's not going to work."

Anderson pushed the button anyway. Nothing happened. He groaned.

"I always hated taking the stairs," Anderson complained, "But I suppose we're going to have to."

\-----------

JOHN'S POV

John stopped jogging down the steps when he reached the 15th floor. He noticed that there was another door he could go into. He peeked through the rectangular window to see it had been covered up by something. 

He was stupid, he was stupid, stupid! He put his ear to the door and knocked lightly. 

Silence.

But then something moved, he heard it. He strained his ears to listen, trying to maintain his breathing so it would slow down so he didn't sound like he was panting like a dog.

"Hello?" He called out, "My name is John Watson--I'm--"

The door then swung open and he almost fell on his face. He straightened himself to see a beautiful brown woman at the door. Her hair was in small tight curls, tied up in a bun on her head. He then realized that it was Sally.

"John?" Sally said almost in awe. He saw Molly's head poke around the corner.

"John!" Molly smiled, she come forward and embraced him. He felt awkward as was shirtless and he stared over Molly's shoulder at a smug looking Sally. "It's so good to see you, thought I'd never see your face again!"

"Same to you..." John lied with a small laugh.

"You must be freezing! Come in, come in!" Molly ushered him in and Sally shut the door. Their room was not nearly as neat as his was, but it was warmer considering they didnt have a giant hole in their wall.

The view was closer to the ground, looking at the big brick place across from them.

"Listen, I don't really have time to chat, you see I've lost Sebastian and--"

"Sebastian? Moran?" Sally asked in question and wonder, "What're you doing with Sebastian Moran?"

"We're a team, him and I," John said slowly, "Been travelling together awhile now."

"Sherlock would never have agreed to that over his dead body," Sally laughed as she crossed her arms. Molly looked at John as he hung his head a little bit.

"He is dead."

Sally's smile then faltered to a thin line, she leaned foreard, "Wha--? Sorry? Come again?"

"Sherlock's dead. He died at the invasion, fell off of a roof."

Sally and Molly exchanged looks. John looked between the both of them.

"What?" He asked.

"Oh you poor thing," Sally said, putting a hand on his arm. Her eyes were sympathetic and kind, as well as Molly's. Her hand was warm so John let her keep it there, but he looked at them in confusion.

"I--I don't know what you're--"

"All this time you've been believing that? Thinking he's dead?" Sally asked.

"John, Sherlock's not--"

**BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!**

Molly stopped talking and looked at the door in horror. Sally went over to the window and lifted up the flap of paper that was hung there to cover it up. John rushed to the door and put his ear to it, his heart pumping, thinking about the words they had just said.

Was Sherlock alive?

Had he been alive all this time?

The groaning pushed his thoughts away though.

"They're back," John said to Sally, she looked down at him to where he was crouching.

"The same group of them?" She asked. They must've come across them as well, they had been on the 38th floor after all.

"Not sure," John admitted, "We're going to have to stay in here though, sounds like there's a lot of them."

Molly's quivering voice reached the both of them, "Uh...guys..." she was at the large window, "You might want to have a look at this."

Sally and John looked at each other, he read fear on her face like a poem, and they rushed over side by side.

They looked down to see an ocean of zombies barelling and cramming between the walls of the buildings on the streets. They were a collision of color, oddly, painting themselves along the canvas of the road.

" _Where did they all come from?"_ Sally breathed in terror. John shook his head and backed up from the window.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

"Dammit, Anderson, you'll get us all killed!" Sherlock yelled as he shot countless walkers. They had to keep climbing the stairs, they were already on the seventh floor, heading higher.

Mycroft wasn't doing so well, as his small bony body didn't help him much. Sherlock ran back and put an arm around his brother. It felt odd and awkward, but Mycroft didn't refuse his help.

Anderson was clambering up the steps two at a time, grasping the railing to usher him forward. He had to make it to the 38th floor. Sherlock wished he'd just killed Anderson along with Michael, and maybe they wouldn't have been in this mess.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft wheezed, "I can't go on any longer..."

"Shut up, Mycroft, yes you can--"

"Sherlock," Mycroft glared, Sherlock noticed, he did, that Mycroft was barely moving his legs and Sherlock was just dragging his body. 

"I'm not leaving you here to be eaten," Sherlock argued as he began climbing faster and faster, turning 'round and shooting another three. He was low on ammo, the next round in his jacket pocket.

"We've done it plenty times before, little brother," Mycroft said weakly. 

14th floor.

"ANDERSON!" Sherlock called, ignoring Mycroft's statement of the truth.

One two three, one two three--

**BAM! BAM! BAM!**

The shots echoed throughout the stairwell, bouncing off of the stone walls. But the groaning of the undead overpowered it in seconds.

He saw a door open, light flooding in, and he didn't even know it but he was dragging Mycroft into the room that could just be filled with more walkers, but he didn't care--

"Sherlock!" He heard a familiar voice gasp. He looked up as he heard the heavy door shut, and the undead began ramming into it.

Mycroft fell in a heap out of his arms, and Sherlock stumbled backward and rested against a wall. He wiped a hand down his face, and when all was silent except for his heavy breathing, he opened his eyes.

John.


	19. Wednesday-Dawn/Continued

John's heart had stopped as he stood a meager five feet away from the man he thought had been dead for three months.

Sherlock looked just as he did when he'd met him the first time, except he was thinner somewhat, and more muscular. John's mouth opened and closed and open and closed. Sherlock just stared, his blue eyes wide and lips slightly parted.

"John--"

"Sher--"

They breathed out at the same time. John's mouth betrayed him as his lips curved up into a relieved smile, Sherlock did the same and John didn't know it but he shot himself forward into Sherlock's arms. Because to him, they were the only two in the room.

John looked up to Sherlock and almost kissed him, they just stared at each other, breathing, smiling, in awe at one another.

"Hey--" Sally's voice broke their fantasy, "Sorry to interrupt your little reunion but we've sort of got a little problem here."

John heard Sherlock sigh and John bounced off of him, sticking close though. It was no lie to the two girls and Mycroft that they were something now. John felt a hand around his waist.

"Sherlock? Have you got a plan?" John asked.

Sherlock's eyes were closed and he was doing strange things with his free hand that wasn't gripping John's waist.

"I've got one, it's a bit tricky though," Sherlock said in a low voice, "we're going to have to break that window."

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Oh John, oh John. He was even more burly than when he'd last seen him. His hair was longer, his smile was brighter when he saw him.

They'd stood so far apart, and now Sherlock promised he'd never let him out of his sight.

John didn't seem to mind now, he was with him, they were together.

Sherlock's plan, now, it was tricky. Very tricky.

"Do you know if the floor below has a broken window as well?" Sherlock asked. Molly shrugged as well as Sally.

"We had to take cover in here quick. These herds don't happen often, but we arrived in a time where it did." Sally claimed.

"Me and Sebastian too," John said shortly, "we arrived only a day ago."

Sherlock said nothing, he just stared forward.

"Have...any of you seen Sebastian?" John asked, "He left yesterday evening, haven't seen him since."

Sherlock looked over to Mycroft and gave him a warning glare, he couldn't let John know where Sebastian Moran's deceased body was.

John said nothing more of him when they were all silent.

\-------

They all sat in a circle as Molly fed and watered Mycroft.

"The building is mapped out in one giant square from top to bottom," Sherlock said quickly, he made hand gestures to help him think better, "the stairwells are lined against all of the walls in a spiral. Each room has these wall-width windows, and we need them all to be broken."

"What? why?" asked Sally.

"We're going to have to climb through them," Sherlock's eyes landed on John, "but we have to go individually."

"But what about the zombies?" John asked. Sherlock had to bow his head to hide his smile at the word. John was such a child, but he was serious in this moment.

"We're going to lead them out in one big waterfall," Sherlock explained, "its simple."

"How do you mean?"

"We're going to open the door, the walkers will take our bait, say, Sally for instance," Sherlock smiled cooly, Sally scoffed, "she runs and jumps out of the window, and the walkers with follow."

"I'm going to jump out of a window!If you think I'm doing that you're crazy!" Sally crossed her arms.

"Ah, but you're not," Sherlock held up a finger, "hooking your hands on the edge of the floor where it cuts off, you'll dangle there until all of the undead are over the edge and then swing yourself into the next floor below.

Of course this is why all of the windows need to be broken."

"That's brilliant, really, Sherlock," John breathed, Sherlock smiled, "but..."

"But?" Sherlock's smile diminished quickly.

"This isn't Mission Impossible. None of us are in shape to be able to do that."

"John's right," Molly called, "Sherlock, Mycroft is in no condition to swing himself down anywhere. He'd land in a jumble of bones and blood," she glanced at Mycroft, "Sorry."

Sherlock grimaced, "fine, I'll make an alternative. But John and I can swing fine--"

"Oh, so can I. Don't you think I can't, I just don't want to," Sally said defiantly.

"Sally, you either go or you don't, we don't care," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

\-----------

JOHN'S POV

He hated to admit it, because he was with Sherlock, but he was worried about Sebastian. He needed to know what happened to his friend.

Sally and Molly barricaded the door in the meantime. He wondered what the zombies did when they got bored.

Sherlock dragged John behind a cubical wall on the very far side of the room.

"Why aren't you wearing a shirt?" Sherlock asked, running a cool hand over his already chilly skin. "You're freezing."

"I wrapped up a zombie arm with my shirt because I didn't know if I'd get infected if I touched it," John laughed, it sounded a bit ridiculous now that he said it out loud.

Sherlock chuckled and rubbed the sides of his arms. John leaned in and laid his head on Sherlock's chest. He smelled like rain and the dirt in the forest where he'd been traveling with Sebastian.

John shot backward, remembering that the reason he was down here was that he was supposed to be looking for Sebastian.

"What's the matter, John?" Sherlock asked, his arms limply outstretched to take John back.

"Seb--Sebastian! I have to go and find him!" John said quickly, turning on his heel to leave but Sherlock gripped his arm and pulled him back into the cubical.

"Don't worry about Sebastian, John," Sherlock said slowly, his eyes were sad. John's heart did a flip.

"Why shouldn't I? He's my friend."

"Apparently he didn't view you so highly," Sherlock sighed, looking down to the floor as he stroked up John's legs all the way to his chest and back.

"What?"

"On our way into the city, we ran into him," Sherlock said slowly, looking slowly over at John, John was thrown into the icy water, but it was warm and somehow comforting.

"So he is alive!" John laughed nervously.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"We asked where he was going, because I had remembered he had left with you after the invasion. He said you were back in the city and he was leaving you behind. He said he couldn't handle you, said he didn't want to bother with you anymore. And we watched him leave and head up into the forest."

John's mind went crazy, but he stood there, still under Sherlock's touch. Sebastian wouldn't just up and leave him like that! Sebastian liked him, he liked him! Or he...had...liked him. No! Sebastian wasn't like that.

"Are you sure it was Seb?"

"Of course," Sherlock's eyes hardened, "John, I'm here now, I--"

"I know you are, Sherlock!" John rasped, "And I am so utterly happy but Sebastian would not, under any circumstances, just get up and leave me behind. I know him!"

"Well, evidently you were wrong about him then," Sherlock said, taking his hands off of John and crossing his arms. John felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

"Don't be complicated, Sherlock."

"I'm not being complicated you're being complicated," Sherlock turned his head away from him. John rolled his eyes so hard he got a headache.

\---------

SHERLOCK'S POV

He had to tell John somehow and make it so he would find Sebastian's body. It was obvious he wasn't killed by the undead by the several bullet wounds in his chest and neck. Or what was left of it.

When night fell, the undead in the stairwell were quieter and it seems they were wandering more aimlessly. He saw several of them falling off of the building out of their giant window.

John laid right beside the window, his back to the group. He could see him visibly shivering as he had his back up against a wall.

He got up and walked over beside John, looking out the window, directly to the building where Sebastian's rotting corpse lay.

Sherlock sat down beside John's feet and put a hand on his ankle. John sat up stiffly, but then relaxed when he saw it was him.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" John asked dryly.

"Go back to sleep, John," Sherlock mumbled. John slowly laid back down and continued to shiver.

Before Sherlock knew what he was doing, he slipped off his black jacket he was wearing and put it over John.

Now he wore a single white button up. He saw John still shivering, hugging the jacket around his body more tightly. Sherlock smiled as he found John to be silly, sleeping by the window would surely make him colder.

Sherlock laid down, lining his body with John's like he had back in his old room. His feet extended much farther than John's did. Instantly, John rolled over and buried his face into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sucked in a breath at the cold skin of John's face, but slowly felt him warming already.

He put a hand on John's back and fell asleep slowly.


	20. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!! - Naughty...naughty ;)
> 
> Need comments need comments! I've an idea I want to do, but I'm not sure how to do it. Help would be excellent.

\-----

JOHN'S POV

John was grateful for Sherlock's jacket. He knew he shouldn't have laid down beside the window but he wanted to look down to see if Sebastian would come running back. Even though, he probably wouldn't have been able to see him anyway.

He didn't know why he had a really bad gut feeling when his mind wandered to Sebastian. He didn't know why he was so worried in the first place. Maybe because he felt like Sherlock was lying to him. Sebastian would never just abandon him like that unless it was absolutely necessary. Like if they had gotten seperated and he had to go on without him, things like that.

John knew he wouldn't just up and leave. But maybe that's why he was so antsy when he had asked if he could come with.

Sherlock had placed a hand on his ankle and began mindlessly rubbing little circles with his thumb. He stared across, looking at the brick building. John felt something drop in his stomach, but it diminished when he felt Sherlock lay beside him, his chest pressed against his back, his arm slung over him.

John was pulled close against Sherlock, his hand dangerously tight around his wrist. His voice that spoke in his ear seemed to vibrate his entire body, rumble and lull his brain.

"I've finally found you," Sherlock sighed through his nose, "and you're all mine now."

"All yours now..." John nodded a little, sleep taking over quickly.

Sherlock snuggled his chin to fit into John's shoulder, Sherlock's hand letting go of his wrist to rub his chest.

"Have you missed me?" Sherlock's voice asked, the cold didn't seem to exist anymore.

"More than I miss morning tea," John sighed. He felt his entire body move from Sherlock's chuckle, but it stopped abruptly.

"Did you miss..." Sherlock's hand traveled to the band of his pants, his palm lying just below his stomach.

John's breath hitched, holding his breath.

Sherlock's hand moved downward, beneath his pants right onto bare skin on the side of his thigh.

His hand was cold yet warm at the same time, it was comforting, it was what he wanted. He'd been so loyal to Sherlock, refusing Sebastian even when he had admitted that he'd wanted the sexual interactions.

John let out a shuddery breath, Sherlock mused a hum from his throat.

He was grateful for the wall behind them, the silly cubical, the silly, silly cubical.

Sherlock's hand moved beneath the fabric of his pants, lingering, floating ever so lightly over his skin. Goosebumps trailed along with it. His hand curled around him, already half hard, but just his touch made his pants tent in no less than a few seconds.

Lips caressed John's neck as he began to pump slowly, his thumb grazed the head, dragging the precum down his shaft. John's hand shot up and grabbed the back of Sherlock's nec, throwing his head back as he suppressed his whimpers.

The longer Sherlock drew up, the longer the moan John emitted. He tried covering his mouth, the feeling was so good, it was so--he craned his head slowly to look at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were so bright, glazed with lust and shining like tiny moons. He took him into a kiss, John trying not to moan into his mouth.

\----------

SHERLOCK'S POV

Sherlock's mind was static, quiet, black and white, fuzzy, something that never happened. Ever. 

John was here to be his, he was letting him touch him like he never had before. Nights when in the town, John barely agreed to take his shirt off. And now here he was, Sherlock had complete control of him. 

As he let his lust help him, he couldn't help but want to torture John. He couldn't help but want to hear those whines and whimpers that John was suppressing beneath his hand. Only letting his palm and fingers hear them. 

He began to stroke faster, just barely, the friction growing stronger but oh so nearly the same. He knew John felt the difference as he bit into his hand. And suddenly something was happening, John began to unzip his pants, letting him spring free and he nearly cried out as Sherlock's nimble fingers grazed that sensitive spot just below the head.

"F-Faster--" John managed to choke out. Sherlock smiled with delight, a rumble so low forming out of him he sounded demonic.

In one fast swoop Sherlock laid John on his back and leaned over him, John's legs beneath him, between his thighs. John's look of surprise and sleepiness was snapshotted in Sherlock's mind. 

"Sher--"

Sherlock lent forward and took him into a kiss, greedy and strong, John brought his hands up to clamp around his neck. John's tongue was exceedingly strong.

Sherlock pumped John's member harder and harder, John began to rock his body upward, his flesh rubbing against the fabric of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock breathed into John's mouth a moment, he leaned upward, staring down at him. John threw his head back, letting out a soundless cry as Sherlock twisted ever so slightly. He was playing him, he was--

His pants were so tight, he had to--

Sherlock undid his pants with one hand, the button, then the zipper. He sprung out, precum already swiped down him. John looked back, his eyes widening, and when he looked up to Sherlock his eyes were deep, ready, glazed and unaware. A smile swept the side of his mouth up and John pulled him back down for another long kiss. 

Sherlock's hand then grasped the both of them together, and Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, as John did to him. A shock rushed through the both of them and suddenly they were both grinding into one another, John's hand traveled down and grasped them around Sherlock's hand. And for a moment Sherlock didn't know what to do--he'd never--

But John's hand was strong and it knew exactly how and where to move. Sherlock was too distracted through, taking in John's facial expressions from which type of pleasure he felt. But he had to admit it was hard to, John's eyes, the creases in his face, he was throbbing--  
"Ah--" John held back a shout, letting out a shuddering cry as he came all along his stomach, and moments later Sherlock bucked and shot up John's chest.   
Sherlock kept himself above John just a moment longer, they were panting, looking at each other, staring. They stayed like that for a long while. And for a moment in time, Sherlock Holmes was in love.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! please please oh please leave comments on how you liked/disliked it. I will take every comment to mind and work from it. I need constructive criticism. thank you!!


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